Waves & First impressions
DECLAN
I jammed my longboard into the sand and dropped onto my towel with a sigh. The waves were rubbish today—sloppy, sluggish things, better suited to tourists posing for photos than anyone who actually surfed.
My gaze skimmed the shoreline. A petite blonde in a neon bikini was splashing more than paddling, laughing at her instructor one moment, pouting the next when she toppled straight off her board. Cute, in a predictable sort of way, but not my kind of entertainment.
And then I saw her.
Dark hair pulled high, a black wetsuit sculpted to her frame. She paddled out after a wipeout, shoulders set with stubborn determination. The next swell came, and she pushed to her feet, arms out, wobbling like she was balancing on glass.
“Come on, love,” I muttered under my breath.
Halfway there before the wave bucked her off. She resurfaced smiling—actually smiling—and went right back out. No sulking, no theatrics. Just grit.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, as if coaching from the sidelines. “That’s it... now.”
She caught one clean. Stood tall, shouting in triumph before diving straight off the back. And I grinned like an absolute idiot. Didn’t know her name, didn’t know a thing about her, but I was proud of her anyway.
She jogged up the sand, slapped her instructor’s palm, then vanished toward the car park. I figured that was it—until she reappeared minutes later, barefoot in cutoff shorts and a faded Oklahoma Sooners T-shirt. Not the Malibu uniform. On her left wrist, a stack of bracelets caught the light: beads, silver, turquoise, even a leather wrap. Not polished. Not random either. The kind of thing someone wore like armour.
I stood, grabbed my board, and called out, “Hey.”
She glanced over, unimpressed, and kept walking.
“You did well out there,” I said, falling into step beside her. “First timer?”
“Thanks. Been taking lessons a few weeks.” She smiled politely, already turning away. Her hand flicked almost unconsciously to adjust the stack of bracelets higher up her wrist. A habit. Protective.
I tried again. “I could tell you were determined to catch one. I’m Declan.”
She gave me a quick shake. “Valerie.”
The name fit her—strong, clean edges. “Nice to meet you. Fancy a coffee?”
Her look said she’d heard that line a thousand times.
“Right. Appallingly cheesy,” I admitted with a half-smile.
She laughed, soft but real, and didn’t walk off. Encouraging.
“What about lunch?” I pressed.
I nodded toward the café across the street. “Best sandwiches in town.”
She hesitated, tightened her ponytail, then nodded. “Okay.”
The café smelled of fresh bread and espresso. I held the door for her, and she stepped inside like she already knew the place.
“You’re good for someone who’s only been surfing a few weeks,” I said.
“Thanks.” She studied the chalkboard menu like it was written in Latin. Her bracelets clinked softly when she tugged them higher again, covering whatever it was she didn’t want the world to see.
“You’ve been here before?”
“A few times.”
“What’s good?”
“The Beefeater if you’re craving meat, veggie wrap if you’re pretending to be healthy, California club if you want to be happy.”
I grinned. “You had me at happy.”
“Turkey, bacon, avocado. Perfect combination.”
“Bacon makes everything better.”
“Bacon is a gift from the gods.” She leaned on the counter, bracelets sliding down before she caught them quickly, pushing them back into place. “Ever had bacon donuts in Malibu?”
I blinked. “That’s a real thing?”
“Very real. Maple glaze, warm dough, crispy bacon on top. My sister gets them every Sunday.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“It is.”
We ordered and found a table by the window. She ate without fuss, without trying to fill every silence. I liked that. I liked it a lot.
“So,” she asked eventually, “what do you do when you’re not chasing waves?”
“A bit of acting.”
“Stage or screen?”
“Both.” I kept my tone light, but I’d learned people usually reacted to the name, the family, the rest of it.
She didn’t. Just said, “Good for you,” and went back to her sandwich.
I smiled wider than I should have. Refreshing.
When we finished, I leaned back, drumming the table lightly. “Will I see you out there again tomorrow?”
“Depends on the waves.”
“Or...” I leaned in. “You could let me give you a lesson.”
Her brow arched. “Instructors seem to be doing just fine.”
“They’re fine. I’m better. And I work for free.”
“Nothing’s free in this town.”
“Your company’s enough payment.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You always this smooth?”
“Only when I’m hopelessly out of practice.”
“Then keep practicing... somewhere else.”
“Tomorrow. Same time?”
She hesitated long enough to sting. Then: “Maybe.”
“That’s all I ask.” I opened the café door, sunlight spilling across us.
We walked back to the car park. I tucked my board under my arm. “See you on the water, Valerie.”
“Maybe,” she said again, unlocking her car. But when she drove away, I caught the flicker of a smile she probably hadn’t meant me to see.
VALERIE
The ocean was out to humiliate me again.I paddled, wiped out, swallowed half a gallon of salt water, and paddled right back. Stubbornness is the only muscle I’ve ever been proud of, and damned if I was going to let a wave beat me.
This time I managed to stand for a glorious three seconds—arms flailing like I was tightrope-walking in front of God and everyone—before the wave pitched me straight into the drink. I came up sputtering and grinning, and my instructor gave me a thumbs-up.
Somewhere on the sand, I heard someone mutter, “Come on, love,” in an accent that practically screamed Downton Abbey. Figures. Malibu was crawling with wannabes and imports. I ignored him, focused on the next set, and finally—finally—caught a clean ride. I whooped before I could stop myself, threw my arms in the air like I’d just nailed the gold medal, and dove off the back.
By the time I wriggled out of the wetsuit and tugged on cutoff shorts and my old Sooners tee, my skin felt raw from the salt. I reached into my bag for the usual armor—bracelets. Beads, silver, turquoise, the leather wrap that never left my wrist. I stacked them up my left arm, tugged the wrap tight until the angry scar underneath disappeared. Old ones had faded to white, easy enough to hide, but the vertical pink line still burned if I let myself see it. So I didn’t. Nobody got to see that anymore.
Which is exactly why I wasn’t in the mood for Mr. Tall, Dark, and British when he called out:
“Hey.”
I glanced over, expression flat, and kept walking toward my car.
“You did well out there,” he said, catching up. “First timer?”
“Thanks. Been taking lessons a few weeks.” I tugged the bracelets higher, made sure the leather stayed put. Short, polite. Please go away.
But he didn’t. “I could tell you were determined to catch one. I’m Declan.”
I gave him my hand because Mama raised me with manners. “Valerie.” Quick shake, quick release.
“Nice to meet you. Want to grab a coffee?”
Oh, boy. There it was. The Line. And the sheepish grin that went with it.
“Right. That was incredibly cheesy,” he admitted.
Damn him—I laughed before I could stop myself. Just a little.
“What about lunch?” he tried again.
He pointed across the street. “Best sandwiches in town.”
I should’ve said no. Should’ve waved, driven off, gone home to a shower and silence. Instead, I tightened my ponytail like that would hold me together. “Okay.”
The café smelled amazing—fresh bread, coffee—and he held the door open like we were in a BBC costume drama. I hated how much I noticed.
“You’re good for someone who’s only been surfing a few weeks,” he said.
“Thanks.” I stared at the chalkboard menu like it held state secrets. My bracelets slipped; I pushed them higher before he could notice.
“You’ve been here before?”
“A few times.”
“What’s good?”
“The Beefeater if you’re craving meat, veggie wrap if you’re pretending to be healthy, California club if you just want to be happy.”
“You had me at happy,” he said, grinning.
“Turkey, bacon, avocado. Perfect combination.”
“Bacon makes everything better.”
Finally, something we agreed on. “Bacon is a gift from the gods. Ever had bacon donuts in Malibu?”
He blinked. “That’s a real thing?”
“Very real. Maple glaze, warm dough, crispy bacon on top. My sister swears by them.”
He laughed, and something about the sound unknotted me. Just a little. Dangerous.
We ordered and sat by the window. He didn’t fill the silence with chatter, which should have been fine. Instead it let me notice him. The way his smile lingered a beat too long when it was aimed at me. The way his gaze flicked once—just once—to my bracelets before he politely looked away. My skin prickled. I tugged the leather wrap tighter.
“So,” I said, cutting through the quiet, “what do you do when you’re not chasing waves?”
“A bit of acting.”
“Stage or screen?”
“Both.”
He said it lightly, but there was something in his eyes—used to people reacting, maybe even worshipping. Too bad. I wasn’t giving him that.
“Good for you,” I said, and bit into my sandwich.
His smile deepened like I’d surprised him.
By the time we finished, he was drumming his fingers against the table. “Will I see you out there again tomorrow?”
“Depends on the waves.”
“Or...” he leaned in, grin too smooth, “you could let me give you a lesson.”
I arched a brow. “The instructors seem fine.”
“They’re fine. I’m better. And I work for free.”
“Nothing’s free in this town.”
“Your company’s enough payment.”
Smooth. Too smooth. I laughed anyway. “You always this practiced?”
“Only when I’m hopelessly out of practice.”
“Then keep practicing... somewhere else.”
“Tomorrow. Same time?”
I let the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. “Maybe.”
“That’s all I ask.”
We walked back toward the parking lot. He tucked his board under his arm like some ridiculous surfer prince. “See you on the water, Valerie.”
“Maybe,” I said again, unlocking my car.
But the truth? I caught myself smiling on the drive home. And when my bracelets slid down on the wheel, I tugged them back up—because I wasn’t ready for anyone to see what was underneath. Not yet.
