Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(92)

Spray.

Gravity…ruler of all.

I dropped in on a one-eighty spin. Tail skimmed down the face of the wave. The collapsing barrel roared with fury behind me. And through a salty cloud of mist, I glided out, riding the exhilarating power of nature.

But once I hit sand, the peace I’d sought ended. A lone girl stood by my gear.

I heaved out a sigh and tucked my board under my arm, preparing to face yet another one.

“Are you Mason Price?”

“Mase.” I dropped my board, then grabbed my towel. Had to tug the corner out from under her bare foot.

“Mase, for sure.” She gave a nod.

Pretty thing, but then they all were. Want to bait the fish? Need a tempting lure.

“I’m Leilani Kealo—”

“I’m not interested,” I grumped. My stomach growled; even my body hated her intrusion.

Her expression darkened. “You don’t even know what I want.”

“Not interested in a sponsorship.” I did my best to ignore her exotic beauty and enticing curves when I uttered the rest with a poker face, “Not interested in a beach-bunny f*ck.”

Her eyes narrowed, gaze locked to mine. Unlike all the others, she didn’t notice my body. They’d always swept hungry gazes over me like I was a mouthwatering cut of steak. But not her.

“I’m not interested in either.”

I snorted. “On an isolated beach that took me days to find, on a tiny island in the middle of the South Pacific, you show up with your very Hawaiian sounding name” —I arched my brows on a questioning pause— “standing by my stuff. What do you want, then?”

Fists clenching tight, she rose to her full height—all five-foot-nothing of her—pulled back her slim shoulders, and lifted her chin. “Not a damn thing.”

She scowled then stormed off in a huff.

I grinned, entertained by the drama.

But a frown pulled at my mouth as I watched her.

She plucked a stubbed-antenna satellite phone from a front pocket of her short flowery dress and crossed the single-lane dirt road. A horn blared from the one moving car on the roadway as she stepped in front of its bumper without looking up. Hand still on her phone, she held the other up and gave a slight apologetic headshake to the driver. After jogging out of harm’s way, she stopped a short distance down an alley beside the only restaurant on our windward side of the island, then dropped her head, talking into the phone.

Curious, I grabbed my gear and followed.

“…don’t know why. Yeah, probably every other idiot after a money grab. No, I know that’s not what we’re—” She paused, as if cut off. “I’m here aren’t I? N’kay, fine. I will. I will try. Yeah, Makani, ?ohana. I know. How can I forget? You keep reminding me.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Gotta go,” she murmured into the phone before dropping it back into her pocket.

Coffee-brown eyes pegged me with a penetrating gaze. On a slow breath, her expression softened and she gave me an assessing once-over. “Could we—”

“Look I was—” I ran a hand through my hair.

“—start over? I didn’t mean to stomp off…”

“—rude back there…” We paused, processing what we’d said while talking over each other.

She let out a defeated sigh. “Could I buy you lunch?”

“Now that I’m interested in.” I leaned my board against the faded red wall beside the door.

When I gestured an arm ahead for her to take the lead, she paused in the doorway and stared at my beat-up surfboard. “Not windsurfing?”

“Not always.” Obviously.

“But you do windsurf…competitively?”

“Plan to.”

Also obvious? Her line of questioning. It smacked of sponsorship.

I held up two fingers to my man Rico behind the bar and he nodded. By the time I glanced back, she’d already grabbed a table by the window, one apparently she’d claimed before: Pale green sandals hung from a corner of her wood chair, a Tommy Bahama beach bag slumped on another chair nearest the cement wall, right under a framed and signed black-and-white picture of surfing icon Kelly Slater.

“But…” The furrow between her brows deepened. “I thought you won two competitions.”

“Did you see them?” Didn’t deny it, but wanted to know how devoted she was to her cause.

“No, but—”

My stomach growled again. Matched my mood. “What do you want to eat?”

“What do you recommend?” She cut a glance toward the menu-board over the bar.

Rico slid two beers between us, then dropped an appraising look at her before arching a brow at me while he answered her question, “Fish tacos.”

“Done.” I gave a short nod. “Five. I’m starved.”

She spread a paper napkin over her lap with an outward sweep of her hands. “Two, please.”

Please. The proper way she said the word struck a chord. So did the poised manner in which she held herself and the way she’d schooled her expression after the phone call. Her overall demeanor, including how she controlled her breaths and her practiced smile, pinged an alert with me—an undercurrent rumbled beneath her carefully polished surface.