Page 67 of Ride the Wave

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you,’ he says, the playful side to him re-emerging. ‘You stood up on a board today. You surfed.’

‘AndI survived a crab attack.’

He gives me a look. ‘You did not step on a crab.’

‘Got the cut to prove it.’

‘It was probably the edge of a rock.’

‘It stuck out its pincers when it saw me coming and went for the kill.’

‘That is very unlikely.’

‘Bloody villainous crab.’

Using the arms of the chair, I push myself up so my back is straighter, sliding my foot down from its elevated position. Leo instinctively reaches forward to grab my arm.

‘What are you doing? You should keep it up,’ he says crossly.

‘It’s fine; it’s a cut.’

‘You could make it worse.’

‘Leo,’ I say, forcing him to look up at me, his face etched with concern, ‘I’mfine.’

It’s at that moment that we both realise how close we are, his face just inches from mine. His hands don’t move from my arm, his touch comforting and electrifying at the same time. I hold his gaze until his eyes flicker down to my lips as I wet them, my mouth dry, my heart beating a million miles an hour. When he brings his eyes back up to lock them with mine, they seem different somehow, searing and fierce.Hungrier. A bolt of desire erupts between my legs and my breath hitches. He tilts ever so slightly nearer; I shift my shoulders in his direction, the charged gap between us gradually closing.

He’s going to kiss me.

Leo Silva is going to kiss me.

A clatter from behind the bar brings us both back to reality with a jolt. We spring apart, turning to see Marina helping a colleague with a tray of glasses that almost went shattering to the floor.

When I twist myself back in my seat, Leo is sitting deep in thought. He fixes a smile when I catch his eye. I smile awkwardly back, wondering if he’s thinking what I’m thinking, which is along the lines of:what the fuck just happened?And,Thank goodness we were interrupted, and also,I wish we hadn’t been interrupted.

‘I should go get you some water so you can take some painkillers,’ he says, getting to his feet. He looks restless and uncomfortable, like he wants to escape the situation.

‘It’s fine,’ I say, flustered, trying to collect myself as I start to stand up. ‘I have some in the apartment.’

‘You can’t walk home on that foot; let me help you.’

‘I can walk a few metres,’ I insist, holding up my hand and stopping him from trying to link my arm around him again. ‘It’s a cut; nothing is broken.’

‘Still. You should rest.’

‘Thank you, Dr Silva,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Seriously, though, thank you for everything today and for all your help with my foot. It already feels better.’

‘Okay.’ He’s agitated, his brow furrowed. ‘What are you doing tonight? I could bring you some food or something. You really shouldn’t be walking around with an injury.’

‘I… I’m out tonight.’

‘Oh.’ He hesitates, looking torn for a moment before he asks, ‘Is it an interview for the article?’

He’s prying. It could be that he’s eager to be kept in the loop about all my research for the feature, but after that intense moment between us, it feels like something is charged. This is no longer a professional relationship.

I don’t know what this is anymore.

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