Page 8 of Ride the Wave

A lump forms in my throat. I realise what she’s getting at.

‘I don’t want that to happen to you again,’ she continues. ‘Are you really the right person to write this article?’

I swallow. ‘Of course,’ I manage to croak, shutting my eyes, determined to push those memories from my brain. ‘I appreciate what you’re trying to say, but I’m fine. I’ll be fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ I say firmly in an attempt to persuade myself more than her. ‘It will work out. It always does. I’ll find a way. And anyway, it’s too late to back out.’

‘Okay, but I’m here if you need to talk about it.’

‘Nope, I’m good!’ I say chirpily, forcing myself to open my eyes and sit up. ‘I do, however, have to go. I need to… unpack.’

‘Let me know how everything goes!’

‘Thanks so much again, Naomi. I’m so grateful to stay somewhere like this.’

‘Well, in return, if you meet any single surfers who make a mean piña colada…’

I smile into the phone. ‘I’ll book you on the first flight out.’

We say our goodbyes and I get up, ready for action. As soon as I arrive anywhere, I have to unpack before I can even think about relaxing, so I drag my case into the bedroom, haul it up onto the bed and get to work. By the time my clothes are all hanging up in the wardrobe or folded neatly into drawers, and the bathroom is decked out in my numerous skincare and beauty products, I feel much more at home and ready to begin this new project. It’s like I can’t get my brain into order until my space is organised.

It may have been a short flight, but I feel gross from the plane, so I shower and throw on a pink dress that has spaghetti straps and a thigh slit, applying make-up and getting excited to explore. It’s the first night after all; I should eat out and there’s something exciting about dressing up for dinner when you’re abroad. Just being somewhere new feels exhilarating; you don’t know what will happen or who you’ll meet. And for me, it’s all part of the writing process. I have to bring the readers here to Portugal and I can’t do that staying cooped up in a flat. Experiencing the delights of Burgau, such as dining out, is technically research.

At least, that’s how I justify my expenses.

As I sit on the sofa to do up the ankle straps of my heels, I glance over at the balcony, which seems to be calling to me. I eye up the chairs and small round table out there, picturing myself enjoying a coffee out there every morning, writing up my notes in peace, casually procrastinating by watching the sailboats floating by on the horizon.

I think I’ll like it here.

Smiling to myself, I spritz some perfume on my wrists, gather the contents of my handbag together, grab the keys from the counter and finally head out the door, locking it behind me. I’m practically dancing down the steps of the building, my hand trailing round the curve of the bannister, when I almost collide with someone on their way up. The shock sends me off balance and I would go tumbling down the steps if he didn’t act so quickly, reaching out to take my arm, holding me steady.

‘Oh my God!’ I exclaim, regaining my balance as my fingers grip into the solid arm of my companion. ‘I—’

Whoa.

The lips of the man I almost took out tilt upwards into a smile that sends my heartbeat into overdrive. Dressed in a smart, tailored suit, the sleeve of which my fingernails are currently digging into, he is in his late thirties, I’d guess, tall with swept-back, dark hair, glasses and designer stubble. And he smells delicious: an aromatic, expensive cologne.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, relaxing my shoulders and smiling back at him, as I release his arm from my grip. ‘Thank you for catching me.’

It suddenly occurs to me that I’m not in London, I’m in Portugal and I’ve made the most classic Brit-abroad mistake in the book by assuming everyone everywhere speaks English. I blame his handsomeness. It’s thrown me off my game.

‘Oh God, that’s so rude,’ I blurt out, aware that I’m still doing it, the heat flushing across my cheeks. ‘Uh…desculpa.’ I grimace at my terrible pronunciation and hope he’ll forgive me.

By the way his smile is widening, I think he might.

‘That’s okay,’ he responds in English with a Portuguese accent that makes my whole body almost melt right there on the stairs. He ismuitosexy. ‘It was my fault. I shouldn’t run up the stairs.’ He takes a step up so we’re on the same level. ‘Have you just arrived here?’

‘Yes, I’ve flown in from London.’

‘Ah. Welcome,’ he says warmly. ‘So, you like the apartment?’

‘Yes, very much. Do you live here in this building?’

‘Uh, no,’ he says. ‘Actually, my family owns it.’

‘You’re kidding.’

---