Page 2

MILLIE

Surfboard collection

My eyebrows spring to my hairline. “Excuse me?”

“What the hell were you doing up there?” he spits, waving his arm towards my former vantage spot.

I narrow my eyes. “What the hell were you doing out there ? If you had minded your own business, I wouldn’t have fallen in, and we wouldn’t be in this mess.” I fail to add the reason I got distracted was because I could’ve sworn some creepy sea creature was camouflaging itself against the rocks.

“I’ll remember to mind my own business next time I see a woman risking her neck like a bloody fool,” he snaps, dropping to the wet sand beside me, his chest heaving.

We sit in silence for several beats, the reality of what happened dumping on my head and shoulders. He might’ve been the reason I startled, but he risked his own life to pull me out. His haggard breaths indicate his adrenaline is pumping a million miles a minute.

“Thank you,” I bite out.

He spits water from his mouth next to him in response.

My gaze travels down his muscular leg to his ankle, where a black band wraps around it. Drag marks line the sand from where he pulled me out of the water, his surfboard in tow. “You were surfing? Now, who’s the bloody fool?”

He tips his head to look at me. “These are good conditions for surfers.”

“The beach is closed, you imbecile.”

With my heart rate slowing, my brain takes the opportunity to notice things I hadn’t at first. The five o’clock shadow on his square jaw, the veins curving into his broad shoulders, the cloud-shaped birthmark on his left pectoral.

My brain snaps with déjà vu at the sight of it. “Have we met before?”

He huffs a laugh, like he’s appreciating a private joke with himself. “I get that a lot, but no. I don’t think so.” He leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out, an unmistakable air of arrogance to his demeanour.

I scrunch my nose up. “No, I’m serious. I think we’ve met.”

He tilts his head to look at me and quirks an eyebrow. “Really? Where?”

Now I’ve got oxygen circulating again, memories slot into place like solving a puzzle. Flashbacks of a teenage boy standing beneath a diving board, hands up to a crowd of onlookers as I hold the school camera to my eye and click furiously.

“Swimming champion,” I mumble. The man’s smug smile vanishes. “You were swimming champion five years in a row. Your name would get called out over the speaker at St. Xavier’s. Noah . . . Noah King! ” I point at him as my brain clicks on his surname. I smile smugly at his bewilderment. Ha.

Recollections of Noah King race back in full force. Seeing him on podiums, watching him surf at senior camp. He was notorious for joking around and disrupting class, which, as someone who valued every lesson, annoyed me to my core.

He was everything I wasn’t. Popular, athletic, charming.

The class clown who teachers adored. He’d run late every day because he’d surf before school, and I don’t think he ever got in trouble for it.

I was a straight-A student who had a healthy respect for discipline, was editor of the student body newsletter, and the person who achieved the highest academic result in the entire grade. Noah and I were as cliché as they come.

Whilst my brain has quickly catalogued everything about this man, he clearly has zero idea who I am. “St Xavier’s. Right.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t act like you remember me.”

“I don’t remember your name, but you were really smart. Right?”

“You’re guessing,” I say dryly.

“No, no, I remember,” he insists. “You finished top of our grade.”

My eyebrows perk in surprise. “Yes, I did.”

“Polly Thompson,” he guesses confidently.

“Millie Schofield. So close.”

I don’t miss the way his gaze drags over my soaked-through frame, like he almost can’t believe I’m next to him.

Maybe he’s thinking how much I haven’t changed.

Still awkward limbs and curly hair. To my credit, my limbs have more muscle on them now than they did in high school. My hair still hates me, though.

“I wasn’t a dick to you, was I?” he asks.

I’m not sure what bothers me more. That he doesn’t rip into me for how little I’ve changed or that I’m utterly unmemorable. “Was that a bad habit of yours?”

He drops his shoulders. “Still is, apparently.”

His despondent tone brings out my need to reassure him. “You weren’t a dick to me.”

Noah’s lips twist in thought, but he doesn’t expand on the topic. “Do you want to share why you climbed that death trap in this weather, Millie Schofield?”

“Did you not notice my camera when you screamed at me?” I ask sarcastically, staring out at the roaring waves.

My chest tugs with bitterness, and I bite my lip to stem the flow of tears.

My most-loved camera and brand new protective gear have officially been lost to the ocean.

I’m lucky I left my phone with Ellis. “Guess I’m never seeing that again. ”

I gather my hair to wring it out. “It’s not replaceable.”

Deep regret lines his face, his body turned towards me to shield me from the wind. “I’m sorry. What can I do?”

“It’s just a thing,” I mutter. “We’re alive. That’s what’s important.”

He gives me a half smile. “That was really hard for you to say, wasn’t it?”

“You have no idea.”

He chuckles. “Maybe I can’t replace your camera, but maybe we could catch up? Go for a drink and talk about old times.”

“Old times?” I ask, perplexed. “What old times would we catch up on?”

“We could reminisce on the old school days,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “I could show you my surfboard collection. I’ve got some amazing photographs of big waves too. If you’re interested in photography, you’ll love them.”

His warm breath dances across my cheek, his deep green gaze hypnotising as he lures me in.

“Your surfboard collection?” I clarify.

He nods. “What do you say?”

“Are you flirting with me to distract me from the loss of a very important camera?”

Noah quirks an eyebrow. “Is it working?”

I squint through the light rain as Noah’s mouth smooths out into a grin. His lips are big and full and especially distracting when he drags his tongue over his bottom lip. When he tosses his wet hair and winks—yes, he winks —I know he’s doing it intentionally.

It’s similar to the choreographed performance he did on the popular girls in high school and I’m certain, has worked on countless women in his lifetime. The way he drags his gaze across my body once again confirms he’s putting on a show, trying to charm me into forgetting what I lost.

I shake my head. “I know all about guys like you.”

Noah’s pupils dilate at the sound of my lowered voice, his emerald gaze transfixed on my mouth. “Is that right?”

“Mmhmm. You’re a cliché.”

His gaze narrows. “I’m a what?”

“A cliché,” I purr. “A phrase or opinion that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought. Or in this case, a person.”

Noah looks baffled. “I know what a cliché is. I meant, how am I a cliché?”

“You’re predictable,” I say lightly, revelling as his smile vanishes.

“The smooth-talking athlete from high school grew up to be the smooth-talking athlete adult. He uses his winning smile and surfboard collection to get his own way. He doesn’t have room for anything in his life except casual sex and competition. How am I doing so far?”

Noah struggles to formulate a sentence, so I get to my feet, grimacing at the sand in my shoes.

“Wait a second,” he protests, jumping to his feet. He towers over me by several inches, but I roll my shoulders back, determined not to shy away. “If I’m a cliché, you are too.”

I smile sweetly. “I don’t think so. My surfboard collection isn’t that big.”

His lip curls into a sneer. “Nerdy, know-it-all from high school grew up to be a nerdy, know-it-all adult. She uses sub-par insults and humour to deflect from her inability to hold a normal conversation. She’s scared of loss and rejection, so competition and sex of any kind are out of the question. How am I doing so far?”

The fury pumping through my veins trumps over the surprise at his quick response. I clench my fists beside me, right as he tampers his jaw shut.

“Thank you for reminding me why I always hated jocks,” I hiss.

“And thank you for reminding me why I never paid attention to nerds,” he growls.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“No need, I’ve got plenty of casual sex lined up.”

I spin to march away before I lose control of my limbs and slap his stupid, smug face, but he steps in front of me, glaring, a smirk on his lips. “My surfboard collection is huge. ”