Page 6 of The Rebel

I need to change all that.

It’s the least I can do before I fuck off again.

Several couples stroll past, so wrapped up in each other they don’t notice me. A family, husband and wife, with twin boys about seven, are laughing by the water’s edge, kicking at the incoming waves, sending sea spray high into the air, drenching each other.

It’s late, the kids should be in bed, but as I watch the family having fun with a complete disregard for so-called society norms on child-raising, an ache starts in my chest and spreads outwards.

The complete innocence of the boys disarms me, their complete trust in their parents. I had that once. An expectation that the adults responsible for me would be dependable.

An illusion ripped away the first time I got hit across the side of the head for taking the last piece of bread, age three.

And the next time when I was four and my dad took a belt to my butt for accidentally knocking over his beer bottle.

And the next, when I was six and in my first foster home and social worker didn’t believe me when I told her I was locked in a cupboard at night so I wouldn’t sneak away.

I learned after that. Adults would never look after me. They would never hug me or care for me or love me.

So I did my best to make them hate me.

It ensured I didn’t get close to anyone. Knowing my shoddy behaviour would have the desired result was the one thing I could control in a crumbling world I despised.

I never trusted anyone and despite how hard Pa tried, I couldn’t let him into that hidden part of me, the part of me that wondered would he, too, eventually cast me aside.

One of the boys lets out a squeal and it pierces my reminiscing. I blink, surprised by the dampness in my eyes.

Shit, I’m turning into a sissy. Tears are wasted. The only good thing my father taught me before he dumped me at Social Services was to ‘harden the fuck up’. Apparently a snivelling five-year-old had never been in his plans after my mum left shortly after my birth. I’m surprised the mean prick kept me around that long.

With a shake of my head, I turn my back on the happy family and head for the resort. I have a shitload of work to do and the sooner I get started, the sooner I can leave this place and its unwelcome, maudlin memories behind.

Chapter Four

Daisy

My head hurts. I shouldn’t have drunk those cocktails last night. I shouldn’t have done a lot of things, starting with downing those Gorgeous Gems like soda and ending with kissing Hart Rochester on the beach.

I have a presentation to nail shortly and the painkillers I took with orange juice half an hour ago haven’t kicked in. Facing Hart after I practically mounted him will be hard enough without a drummer boy in my head practising his cymbal crashes.

I’ve done my research. I’m prepared. But unless I can pretend that kiss never happened, I’m in deep doo-doo.

I never should’ve run away. Hart had called out to me too and I didn’t stop. I acted like some crazy hormonal teen when I should’ve been mature and blasé, as he was.

Adults kiss all the time. We were attracted, we gave into it, shit happens. But by running away like some mortified ingénue, I made more of it rather than dismissing it as a casual sexual impulse.

Maybe I can joke about it when I see him shortly. Something witty that will clear the air and ensure he takes me seriously when I present my plans to him.

Only one problem: I can’t think of one damn thing to say, beyond, ‘I’m an idiot for flinging myself at you but you’re a great kisser.’

And that’s not going to happen. I would’ve been nervous before this meeting regardless because I’m always like this before a presentation. Edgy and tense despite knowing I’ve considered every contingency.

My plans to promote this resort on Gem Island are foolproof. Starting with getting the new CEO, a renowned recluse, on board with a major social media ad campaign. It won’t be easy convincing him. If anything, the disparaging media surrounding the hotel giant’s fall from grace makes my job harder.

Ralfe Rochester’s failing health fails his shareholders.

The prodigal grandson returns to manage the teetering family business.

Has the Rochester empire lost its Hart?

I’m up for the challenge, but Hart’s minimal experience in this business and his lack of an online social profile means I’m in for a fight.

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