Isla

03.

0 3 | s u r f e r ' s  p a r a d i s e

I PEDALLED MY BIKE HARDER UPHILL TOWARDS CLEMENTE HOUSE. My hair was still wet from my morning shower, dripping over my t-shirt to reveal my bikini underneath.

I'd begun working at the Shack every summer since the week I'd turned fourteen, so I was used to the early morning rises – although that definitely didn't make it any easier.

My eyes threatened to drift shut, desperate for a few more minutes of sleep. I pedalled faster, hoping the cold breeze on my cheeks would flush any sort of fatigue out of my body before my shift.

Clemente house was still dark, and when I hopped off my bike to walk the last few metres, I expected the American to have stood me up. Yet, as I reached the porch steps, his figure came into sight.

He stood in a t-shirt and shorts today, leaning against the wall on his phone. I wheeled my bike to a stop, pausing at the bottom of the short staircase and cleared my throat.

He blinked, craning his neck up to glare at me.

"I didn't expect you to be up so early," I said, raising a brow. It was barely half past five. The sun wouldn't even rise for another thirty minutes.

He shrugged at me, hopping down the steps to join me on the footpath.

"Jet lag."

"Right," I muttered. We stood awkwardly in silence for a minute before I cleared my throat and nodded towards the beach. "Shall we?"

He shuffled beside me without a word and I grabbed my bike by the handles, slowly wheeling it down the hill.

"So," he began, his voice cold and distant as we walked. If anything, it was more of a grumble. "Where are we going?"

"Well, I've got work, so we're going to the Shack."

"What?" he spat, furrowing his brows. "We're going to your work?"

I pursed my lips. "It's not like I want to go. And it's not like I want you to come with me."

"It's not like I want to go with you either," he snarled. "If it wasn't for my grandma, I'd –"

"You'd what?" I interrupted, quirking a brow. "Sit inside all day? Until, what? When do you go back again?"

He stayed silent, fuming as we continued walking the short distance to the beach. It was less than fifteen minutes from his place, and the downhill walk made it easy.

Before long, the ocean came into view and our feet were digging into the sand. I locked my bike in its usual spot before making my way towards the Shack.

We opened at six, which meant the sun was barely beginning to rise by the time I'd unlocked the doors, pulled open the metal shutters and prepared the front. My co-workers began slowly filing in, taking their own stations in the air conditioned backroom or by the kayaks and boats we rented out.

Everett had taken one of the bar stools in front, glaring at his phone as I began to work.

We didn't say a word to each other, and I was fine with that.

It was the middle of summer, so the mornings were a very popular time to visit the beach. It wasn't long before the beach filled up.

"Isla!"

I blinked, turning away from our bookings directory to see Austin Wright's shaggy brown hair speeding towards me. He'd already gone for a surf, by the looks of it, and wore his surf suit rolled to his hips, his chest bare and glistening.