The Wrong Mr. Right (The Queen's Cove Series #2)(7)

I waded further out, dropped my board onto the surface and began to paddle. Water made its way into my wetsuit as my arms moved. Something inside me clicked into place. The sky was still brightening, splashing colors across, and once I was deep enough, I sat on my board with my legs on either side, staring up, floating along with the water. Emerald forests rose out of the ocean, towering trees which had seen thousands of sunrises like this one. I took a deep breath.

Every day, I got out here as fast as I could, waking at dawn and hustling out the door of my tiny bungalow on the beach. Every day, I marveled at the fucking beauty of this place, this tiny town I had grown up in.

Queen’s Cove was popular around the world for surfing. We were one of the only places in Canada to catch waves, and despite the cold water, we attracted world-class surfers every summer, as well as a million tourists. Ocean, mountains, forests—what else could someone want?

Every day, the ocean reminded me how insignificant I was. If I let it, the ocean would eat me up and spit me out.

Sitting on the board for a few minutes every morning before surfing was my salutation to Mother Nature.

Thank you for letting me experience this. Thank you for not eating me.

A grin hitched at my mouth, and I rolled off my board into the water and paddled further out behind the break, where the good waves would be. Like usual, I was the only person out on the ocean at this time. You know that feeling of running through fresh, untouched snow? That satisfaction of crunching into the smooth white surface before anyone else? That’s how I felt every morning. The ocean was mine for a couple hours.

During these morning hours, it was like I was the only person on the planet.

I spotted the wave as I swam into the cove, propped myself up on my board, and paddled hard, aligning myself with it. The wave approached and as I crested it, I hopped up on my board, using every muscle in my body to stay upright as the fluid power beneath my feet propelled me forward.

A rush of adrenaline hit my bloodstream.

This surfing thing never got old. If I worked hard enough, if I stayed focused, I would qualify to go pro and I could do this for the rest of my life.

After a few hours, I headed back to shore for breakfast and to open up the surf shop I owned. It was prime time tourist season and the shop needed all hands on deck, but I had hired a couple extra people this summer. The shop could afford it, and it meant I could spend extra time out here.

I arrived at the surf shop half an hour later with a coffee in one hand and a breakfast bagel in the other. I unlocked the door, flipped the lights on, and woke the computer up to check for any important emails.

“Hey, bud,” Carter, one of the summer workers called from the door. Carter was in his early twenties, had shoulder length shaggy hair, and moved to Queen’s Cove for the summer to surf and party. He was a pretty good surfer, actually, and taught the beginner lessons.

“Hey,” I called back, clicking through emails, deleting junk mail, flagging a few to deal with later. My gaze snagged on one, though, and my gut twisted hard.

Pacific Rim Worlds caught my eye.

The Pacific Rim World Competition was a surf competition held yearly in Queen’s Cove. It was a qualifier level, which meant if surfers placed high, they could move on to pro-level competitions and considered professionals. They would get attention of the big surf brands, and many signed sponsorship deals at that level.

Not just anyone could compete at Pacific Rim. You had to apply. Year after year, they rejected me. Finally, last year, I got in.

And then I fucking bombed.

Last year was my shot, and I choked. I still remember the way the water ripped the board out from beneath me. The bruising crash of water on my face and chest. My stomach burned with the memory.

I hadn’t told a soul the truth of what had happened.

All year, in the back of my mind, I had been sure they’d reject me again. Maybe they figured one shot was enough.

Pack your bags, because you’ve been accepted to the Queen’s Cove Pacific Rim Worlds competition in September, the email read.

A grin spread across my face and I exhaled. Going pro was still possible. Surfing was as much mental as physical, and there was no point to worrying over last year. I had two months to get my head on straight.

“Bro,” Carter drawled over my shoulder, peering at the screen. “You got in? Congrats.” He held his fist out and I snorted but knocked my knuckles against his.

“Thanks, man.”

“You need a guy to take over your shop when you go pro?”

I laughed and closed the email. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Between running the shop and the mortgage payments on the little house I had bought from my aunt, I was doing fine for money, but I wasn’t flush with cash. Going pro meant flying all over the world for competitions and festivals, and that was going to add up fast.

Pacific Rim wasn’t just my chance to go pro, it was an opportunity to get a sponsorship deal. That was how all the pros did it. Competitions paid a bit of money, but the sponsorships were where it was at. All I had to do was wear their gear, surf on their boards, and pose for a couple photos once in a while.

If I didn’t get a sponsorship, I’d have to do more music videos like the one I did last winter for that popstar. I laughed to myself and rubbed my face, remembering how the body paint clung to my skin. The video had paid well, but I didn’t want to do more of them. I hadn’t told anyone in town because I’d never hear the end of it, especially from my brothers.