Chasing Waves

Chapter Two: water we doing?

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2: When disputes arise, Ripley will apologise first. Because it was probably his fault.

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Adam Ripley was a chronic flirt.

The media knew it. His sponsors knew it. Hell, his darling mother knew it. Adam couldn't help it. He liked women. A lot. They were cute and sweet and their skin was soft and they were so damn pretty. He liked watching their eyes light up when they told him about something they really cared about. He liked making them giggle. He really liked making them come.

Adam knew how to flirt with every calibre of woman, from the ones who lifted their skirts at the slight curve of his lips, to the ones who swore they'd never touch an athlete like him, only to pull him into the cloakroom five minutes later and beg him to devour them before falling to their knees. Adam knew women like he knew surfing. Knew the art of flirting like he knew the ocean. And seduction?

Adam knew seduction well.

One thing that Adam didn't know was how the hell to flirt with Honey fucking Valentine.

Lounging against the bar in a grungy downtown hang out, he sipped from his beer—Arona Light—and smiled politely as the leggy brunette who'd settled between his thighs batted her lashes, giggling at something he'd said that he hadn't realised was funny. She was gorgeous, and a model, having just finished a campaign for some makeup brand he'd never heard of with the sultry redhead sitting to his right. He'd seen them eyeing him across the haze of the dancefloor as soon as he stepped into the smoky bar to meet up with Hunt, unaware that Daisy and her friends would also be in attendance.

Meaning that Honey fucking Valentine would also be in attendance.

Cobain's was something between an underground music venue and a dive bar. It had dark walls and darker lighting, and its drink menu paid homage to the greats of the nineties alt-rock scene. It was flannel and black velvet, gin and tonics and cheap, packaged beer. It smelled like cigarettes and leather and hasty decisions.

Honey was a million-dollar portfolio straight off of Wall Street.

A glass of the bar's most expensive wine in her hand, her bracelets a flash of silver in the dark, she watched the band from one of the tables flanking the dancefloor with a sort of irreverent indifference that would make the most skilled of drummers fumble his drumsticks. Her face was angled toward the stage just enough that Adam could make out the shape of her profile: her perfect Valentine nose; the dainty curve of her jaw; one of her light brown eyes, framed by thick lashes that were long and feathery and dark as sin. Her honey blonde hair was curled at the ends and bounced when she swivelled. The front sections were clipped off her face on one side with pearl clasps—just like when Adam had seen her that afternoon. She was still in her white blazer, her heels, her tight pencil skirt.

That goddamn pencil skirt.

Adam tightened his grip on his beer, taking another swig as Natarsha—or was it Natalia?—hooked a strand of hair that had fallen out of his bun behind his ear to whisper something filthy inside. No matter what Adam said or did or didn't say or do, when it came to Honey, he felt like it was wrong. Like he was forever playing catch-up. He'd talk to her. Wrong. He'd ignore her. Still wrong. He'd trail her down the hall, offer some sincerity, try to be real. She'd veritably slap him across the face, and he'd level vitriol right back. Maybe she liked it mean.

Very, very wrong.

Adam was good at catching things. Great, even. His whole pro surfing career was built on the notion that Adam The Rip caught the waves that no sane-minded surfer would dare attempt.