Page 12 of Broken Hearts

“Really?” Nate asks, a shocked tone in his voice. “It’s one of the biggest surfing competitions in the world. Alana made it as an amateur.”

“And my dad was helping her train?” I ask, my heart clenching as I think about him spending time with Alana, teaching her all the things he wanted to teach me.

“Yeah, but Alana is a fucking epic surfer. She can kick my ass out there,” Nate jokes, tossing a thumb in the direction of the ocean. “I’ve known her since we were kids and she’s fucking fearless.”

“I got that from just spending yesterday with her.” Nate’s description of Alana is spot-on, and not just that, but she’s so friendly. She knows everyone in town, and they all seem to love her too. “So when is this pipe thing?” I now ask.

“It’s in a few months, but I’m not sure what’s happening now that Mitch is gone,” Nate says, his words dropping low when he talks about my dad’s death.

“What do you mean?”

“Alana was a bit of a mess and said she’s not competing,” Nate says. “She was wrecked by Mitch’s death. We both were,” he adds, looking away from me and swallowing hard. “Still are.”

The barista calls our names, cutting off our conversation from going into a territory that could bring on the tears again.

We walk up and take our coffee, heading back outside, but instead of sitting at the table, Nate lodges his surfboard under his arm.

“We should head back. I need to get the shop opened,” Nate says, his words quiet. “How’s the coffee?” And we’re back to surface conversation, avoiding talking about my dad and the possibility of me admitting how guilty I feel.

“It’s really good. You were right, not too sweet.” I take a long sip, enjoying the coolness in the morning heat, and hoping this caffeine kicks in soon. I’m going to need it if I’m going to stay up past seven tonight.

“It’s the best on the island,” he says as we approach The Pipe Dream, and then I hear him mutter something under his breath. I swear it sounds like, “Not this asshole.”

“Huh?” I ask, but he doesn’t even look at me, just heading around back, leaving me behind.

“Hi,” I now hear a voice call out. “You must be Mitch’s daughter. I heard you were here.”

I look over near the front entrance of The Pipe Dream and there’s a man standing there. He’s wearing a suit, and I can’t help but think he must be sweating.

“Can I help you?” I say, looking around and wondering why Nate left me here by myself.

“I’m a friend of Mitch’s. Are you Sage Harris?” he now asks, and I nod, but something about this interaction feels weird.

“I am.”

“I’m Pat Butler, a friend of Mitch’s. Is there someplace we can go to talk?” he asks, motioning to Mitch’s apartment like he’s been here before. He’s now mentioned that he’s a friend of my dad’s twice, and that in itself is odd.

“Um, yeah, I guess so,” I reply, walking to the staircase around back. “Can you tell me what this is about?” I feel strange letting this man into my dad’s house even if he says he’s a friend. I don’t know him, and I wish Nate wouldn’t have disappeared.

“Just about his passing. I have some information to share with you about the business and, well, you know…” He doesn’t finish his thought, and I have to say, I don’t know.

But I lead him upstairs. Opening the door, we head inside.

I wantto go upstairs with Sage and that fucking asshole, Pat, but I know I have no right to do that, regardless of the number of years I’ve been working here.

I know why he’s here, and I really shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already heard about Mitch’s daughter coming to town and has got his ass down here, pronto. He’ll be fucking salivating when he finds out she lives in New York and has zero interest in a surf shop halfway around the world.

Well, at least I think she has zero interest in it. She hasn’t been here once in the nine years I’ve been working here. Not to mention that Mitch never talked about her, so why the fuck would she care about this place now? My guess is she’s never even seen a surfboard before, let alone used one.

She’s probably only come out here to claim her inheritance and then fuck back off to the mainland.

But just as soon as that thought enters my head, so does another one. A memory of her eyes last night when I asked her why she and Mitch didn’t talk. They weren’t just filled with sadness and confusion, but something else too.

Something that looked an awful lot like regret. Maybe guilt too.

Which made the words she uttered, “it wasn’t him”, make a bit more sense.

“Fuck,” I mutter, blowing out a breath as I drop my surfboard around the back of the shop, before heading home to take a quick shower and change.

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