Page 57 of Ride the Wave

Leaning on his truck again, I wipe as much sand as possible from my foot and slide it into my shoe, securing the strap round my ankle. I repeat the process for the other foot and find Leo still lingering when I straighten up.

I throw the strap of my bag over my shoulder. ‘So, just to be clear, you’ll message me a time for tonight?’

He smiles playfully at my teasing. ‘Wouldn’t want you to be late, London.’

*

I’m still grinning to myself over the exchange by the time I get back to the apartment, allowing my mind to wander freely into idiotic, pointless thoughts about the feel of his hand clutching mine in the water. I’m so caught up in the forbidden excitement of it, I don’t notice the man waiting for me by the door to the building until I’m practically walking into him.

‘José!’ I say, stepping back, the key in my hand.

Dressed in a sharp, grey suit and silk red tie, he takes off his sunglasses and slides a hand over his styled hair to shoot me a winning, pearly-white smile.

‘Iris, hello,’ he says, looking me up and down, his eyebrows raised. ‘You have been at the beach today?’

‘Yes, I had a surf lesson,’ I admit, before I quickly run a hand through the tangles of my wet hair. ‘How come you’re here?’

‘I was looking for you. I wondered what you were doing tonight.’ He folds his sunglasses, sliding them into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘I wanted to take you for dinner.’

‘Oh!’ I smile, blushing. ‘I’m so sorry, I can’t tonight.’

‘Ah. Tomorrow night?’

‘Tomorrow night I’m free.’

‘Not anymore.’ He grins triumphantly. ‘I’ll come pick you up at eight.’

‘Okay. Great. Thank you.’

He reaches for my hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss onto my knuckles without breaking eye contact. Then, he turns to leave, strolling away down the road, glancing back to flash a winning smile at me over his shoulder. I have to give it to him: he knows what he’s doing. All of it was incredibly charming and sexy.

But I can’t help wishing I was going on a date with someone else.

*

The main living area of Leo’s flat is spacious and light, fairly minimalist with a few personal touches here and there – a bookshelf in one corner of the room, well-kept house plants dotted around on glass tables, some framed photographs of him and his dad, and friends – but the main draw is the balcony. It’s huge, with a stunning view of the rooftops of Burgau sloping down to the beach.

‘Wow,’ I whisper, wandering over to the edge to look out.

‘You like it?’ he asks.

‘I’m not sure anyone couldnotlike it,’ I remark, unable to tear my eyes away. ‘I thought my balcony was good, but I think yours might win. It’s about four times the size.’

‘I remember saying to Dad when I found this place that it suited me because more of the apartment felt like it was outside than inside,’ he recalls, leaning his elbows on the side of the balcony next to me. ‘I was worried I wouldn’t find anywhere I really loved here, because the village is so small. But this came up for sale the week I decided to start looking for my own place. I put an offer in straight away.’

‘Fate.’

‘Something like that,’ he says, checking his phone either for the time or for a message from his dad who he’s already told me is running late. ‘What would you like to drink? Wine or beer or soft drink? I have a variety of all of those, so take your pick.’

‘Soft drink please. What are you having?’

‘A very exciting glass of flavoured water with ice.’

I break into a smile. ‘That sounds perfect.’

‘Coming right up.’

As he heads back inside, I wander in behind him, taking in his home and picturing him living here. I’ve almost always been invited into the house of the person I’m interviewing; a lot of people feel more comfortable chatting to me whilst lounging on their sofa, surrounded by home comforts. Others might do it to show off their impressive interior design or to prove to the readers that they’re not too flashy, that they’re relatable with their kids’ toys shoved into the corner of a room out of the way and their dogs jumping up for a cuddle on the sofa. But I actually get the feeling that, although it’s helpful as a journalist to see his home, I haven’t been invited here as one.

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