Page 46 of Between the Lines

Theo ignored that, kept staring out the window. He could see Dee cleaning the tables out front of the coffee shop, casting a curious eye in their direction, and felt a sudden longing to be out there with her. Sitting in the shade with a latte would be perfect. Almost perfect. Sitting in the shade with a latte and Luca, holding his hand... Now, that would be perfect.

“And bollocks to waiting three days,” his father carried on, cutting through Theo’s drifting thoughts. “This is what you’re going to do: speak to Don Brennan, wave the fucking money under his nose, and tell him if his wife doesn’t sign after all this malarkey then the whole deal’s off. As for lover boy, tell him he’d better damn well make sure his mum signs on the line or he’ll be bailing her out when the whole place goes belly-up in a couple of years. Which is exactly what’s going to happen. As I’m sure you know.”

With a sigh, Theo looked away from the street and back to his father. “Alright,” he said, because it was the easiest way to end this. “I’ll speak to them.”

His father grunted, but it didn’t convey much trust. “I want this done, Theodore. I’ve got Daly gagging to get down here and I don’t want—” He sucked on his cigar, blew another smoky breath into the car. “Don’t forget what’s riding on this, son.”

By which he meant his partnership in the firm. “I haven’t.”

“Call me tomorrow.” His brow twitched into a deeper frown. “I expect progress.”

“You’re not coming back to the Majestic?”

“What do you think?”

What he thought was that Eddie Wishart wouldn’t be seen dead staying in a place like the Majestic. “Then you can let me out here.” Theo tapped on the privacy divider between themselves and the driver, asking him to pull over, but when he reached for the door his father stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I mean it, Theodore. Get this done. I can’t cover for you forever.”

He pulled free, stung. “You don’t have to cover for meat all.”

“Just get it done. Then we’ll talk.”

Chapter Eighteen

The water out in the deep was cool. Clouds gathered on the far horizon and the ocean swelled in response to the rising storm, flexing its power.

Luca already sported several bruises on his legs and hips, his sinuses and throat had been cleaned out by a couple gallons of seawater, and his arms and shoulders burned as he paddled out over the white-capped breakers for more. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the water; time was different here, measured in the endless roll of the ocean and the constant search for the perfect wave. Around him, the water started drawing back, a slow sucking in of breath, and Luca’s heart rate kicked up as he glanced over his shoulder at the rising wall of water.

Yes. Yes, this one.

There were other surfers around him, focused on the water, squinting against the glare. He spat out salt and started paddling hard, building up speed as the wave took him, and then he was moving, muscles coiling to jump up, feet planting on the waxy board, arms out, and he was flying, dropping down the face of the wave. Terrifying power surged beneath his feet and in that moment Luca knew his own insignificance. He was flotsam catching a ride, a speck against the awesome power of the ocean. Like riding a tiger, one mistake could kill him.

And then it was over, the wave softening, giving up some of its rage, and Luca was in danger of coming in too close to the swimmers, so he switched back and pitched himself off the board down the shoulder of the wave. He was breathing hard when he surfaced, arms and thighs burning, blood fired with adrenaline. Above him, the sun had reached its peak and he knew he should go in. But he wasn’t ready to return to land yet.

Problem was, without the distraction of the surf, he couldn’t stop thinking about Theo getting into his father’s car. Or about how, in a few days, he’d be driving away for good. The thought sat like a cold weight in his chest, and he’d only known Theo for a couple weeks. Imagine the damage he could do if Luca let himself get seriously involved—imagine how much it would hurt if he let himself fall in love.

As if you can stop yourself.

He paddled out for another wave, but he was distracted now, his focus lost, and he barely even got to his feet before he wiped out. He was tired, and as much as he didn’t want to go in, he also knew that surfing when you were under par was a great way to wind up in the hospital.

He lifted a hand to Ashna as he waded ashore. She’d come on duty since he’d been in the water and, wow, he must have been out there three hours at least. His limbs felt leaden as he trudged up from the foreshore onto the hot, dry sand, squinting and wishing for his sunglasses. He’d left them with his phone and towel at the foot of the lifeguard chair.

“Hey,” he said, propping up his board and ripping the leash off his ankle. “Enjoy the party last night?”

“I knowyoudid.”

He reached for his towel, rubbing it over his hair. “Huh?”

“You and the skinny white dude you don’t want to bang, smooching away on the dance floor.”

“Shut up,” he said, reaching for his sunglasses. He was glad of their protection from both the sun’s glare and Ashna’s arch smile.

“What’s this? Luca Moretti defensive about a hookup?”

He unzipped his wetsuit and pulled the arms down, letting it hang from his waist as he dried his chest. “I’m not defensive.”

Ashna regarded him for a moment, then just said, “Right. Okay,” and turned her attention back to the beach. She twisted the top off her water bottle and took a long drink. It was a humid day, the air heavy and stormy even on the beach. “He’s been watching you surf, by the way.”

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