Page 5 of Broken Hearts

I roll my head to the side to look at her. “Or maybe he didn’t, and it will go to her because she’s family,” I say, air quoting the word family. “Then what the fuck happens to us? To this place?”

“I don’t know, Nate,” Alana says, finishing off the rest of my beer. “But there’s nothing we can do until she gets here.”

The next day, I force myself to get up with the sun, heading out for a surf to clear my head. I definitely had way too many beers yesterday, and the coldness of the water is great for washing away my hangover.

It also helps to clear my head about what Alana had told me, and while I still haven’t forgiven Mitch for not telling me about his daughter, I know I was wrong to take that anger out on Alana. None of this is her fault, even if I do wish she would have talked to me first before calling this mystery daughter.

And I know I need to apologize to her for that.

After I’ve surfed for an hour or so, I head back to the beach, grabbing my towel from the sand and slinging it over my shoulder. With my board tucked under my arm, I head up the beach and across the road to the shop, planning to shower in the outdoor shower on the side of the building before changing, grabbing a coffee from the place next door and then opening up the shop.

I prop my board against the wall, turning the tap on in the shower before standing under the cold water that always takes a few minutes to warm up. It’s freezing but perfect for taking the remaining edges of my hangover off. As I step under the water in my boardshorts, I hear a voice say, “Excuse me?”

I look up to find a gorgeous blonde chick standing by the open side of the shower, watching me. She’s clearly walked around here, which is unusual and when I take in what she’s wearing – the long sundress and flip flops, the pale skin – I know she’s not a local. Still, she’s fucking hot, and if she’s a tourist just looking for some fun, even better.

“Hey,” I say, giving her a wide smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m…I’m, um, looking for someone,” she says, clearly nervous.

My grin widens as I step out of the water, pushing my hair back. “I can be someone,” I say, not missing the way her eyes drop, taking in my body.

I know I’m in good shape; years and years of surfing have toned my body into something that girls like to look at. And this girl is no different.

She blushes, her eyes snapping back to mine as she says, “Alana Hale? I’m looking for Alana Hale.”

My head tips to the side as I take in this girl again. There’s something weirdly familiar about her, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. “She’s not here yet,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Maybe in an hour or so.”

“Okay,” she replies with a nod. “I’ll come back then.” Her gaze meets mine before she moves to turn away and as she does, I suddenly get hit with the weirdest sense of déjà vu.

“Wait,” I say, my hand out to her, before I remember I’m wet.

The girl stops, turning back to me, and it’s then that I see it. When the pieces finally click together, and I know exactly who she is and why she’s here. Her eyes. Her eyes are crystal clear blue, like the color of the ocean on the perfect summer day.

They are also the eyes that looked across at me from the shop nearly every day for the past nine years.

“You’re his daughter,” I say, my words a statement, not a question.

“What?” she asks, confused.

“You’re her,” I repeat, taking another step toward her. “You’re Mitch’s daughter.”

She doesn’t say anything, just blinks at me, her eyes filling with tears.

“What are you doing here?”the guy now asks, his tone almost angry, and I’m taken aback. I knew I shouldn’t have come. I’m not welcome here, and rightfully so. I’m Mitch’s absent daughter who has shown up out of nowhere, and these people have no idea who I am.

I don’t even know how to respond to his question. I’m not even sure it’s a question, but more of a demand. He doesn’t bother to introduce himself, but he clearly knows who I am. I swallow hard, pushing back the tears I feel threatening. I’m overwhelmed. I have been since I got that phone call.

The guy is standing there, water droplets glistening on his tanned, toned skin, the sun glowing brightly, and he looks like something out of a movie about surfers. It’s hard not to check him, out with his boardshorts slung low on his hips, revealing the most gorgeous perfectly-cut muscles.

Neither of us says anything for a few seconds, and I mentally remind myself that I’m here for my father’s memorial service and not to ogle the locals.

“You going to answer my question?” he spits out now, narrowing his eyes at me. “The memorial isn’t for another three weeks.”

My stomach tightens at his oh so inviting welcome, and I take in a slow breath, releasing it raggedly as I try to calm myself. All I feel is dread and fear and guilt mixed together, making this interaction even worse.

“You’re Mitch’s daughter, right?” he asks again, this time almost like he’s questioning himself, and all I can do is nod. He stares at me, his impenetrable deep brown eyes nearly boring a hole through me.

I need to say something, anything because right now, I look like a complete fool. Again, I take in a breath, turning to look over my shoulder at the white-capped crystal blue waters. This is what my mother meant when she said it’s a beautiful place. Not this muscled and tanned surf bum standing in front of me.

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