sentimental rubbish infiltrating her long-established common sense.
These days she didn’t waste time reminiscing. She’d given up on great loves and foolish dreams.
Watching her mum go through hell had seen to that.
She was like her hot-blooded Italian father, apparently: they shared starry-eyed optimism, their impulsiveness, their passion for food and fashion and flirting. She’d considered those admirable qualities until she’d witnessed first-hand what happened when impulsive passions turned sour—her dad’s selfishness knew no bounds.
And just like that she’d given up on being like her dad. She didn’t give in to grand passion or fall foolhardily in love. Not any more.
Sure, she dated. She liked it. Just not enough to let anyone get too close.
As close as Archer had once been.
‘Damn Archer Flett,’ she muttered, kicking the table a third time for good measure.
Housework might not have worked off steam but she’d do the next best thing to prepare for this meeting.
Choose a killer business suit, blow-dry her hair and apply immaculate make-up.
Time to show Mr Hot Surfer Dude he didn’t affect her after all these years.
Not much anyway.
* * *
The tiny hole-in-the-wall office of CJU Designs didn’t surprise Archer. Tech geeks didn’t need much space.
What did surprise him were the profuse splashes of colour adorning the walls. Slashes of magenta and crimson and turquoise against white block canvases drew his eye and brightened an otherwise nondescript space.
Small glass-topped desk, ergonomic chair, hardbacked wooden guest chair opposite. Exceedingly dull—except for that startling colour.
Almost as if the computer geek was trying to break out of a mould, trying to prove something to herself and her clients.
Well, all CJ had to prove to him was that she could handle the mega-launch he had planned for his pet project and she could hang the moon on her wall for all he cared.
He glanced around for a picture. Not for the first time he was curious about his online marketing manager.
He’d internet-searched CJU Designs extensively before hiring their services and had come up with nothing but positive PR and high praise from clients, including many sportspeople.
So he’d hired CJ, beyond impressed with her work. Crisp, clear, punctual, she always delivered on time, creating the perfect slogans, pitches and launches for any product he’d put his name to.
Trailing a finger along the dust-free desk, he wondered how she’d cope with a campaign of this size. Launching the first Flett Surf School for teens had to succeed. It was a prototype for what he planned in the surf hotspots around the world.
He’d seen too many kids in trouble—kids who hung around the beaches drinking, smoking dope, catching the occasional wave. They were aimless, trying to look cool, when in fact he’d seen the lost look in their eyes.
This was his chance to make a difference. And hopefully prove to his family just how wrong they’d been to misjudge him.
He’d never understood it—had done a lot of soul-searching to come up with one valid reason why they hadn’t trusted him enough.
Had he been too blasé? Too carefree? Too narcissistic? Too wrapped up in his career to pick up the signs there’d been a major problem?
Tom and Trav hadn’t helped when they’d discussed it a few years ago. He’d asked, and they’d hedged, reiterating that they’d been sworn to secrecy by Frank, embarrassed that their complicity had contributed to the ongoing gap between them.
So Archer had made a decision right then to forget his damn pride and re-bond with his brothers. They might not be the best mates they’d once been but their sometimes tense relationship now was a far improvement on the one they’d had previously—the one he still had with his dad.
It irked, not knowing the reason why they’d done it, and their lack of trust had left a lasting legacy. One he hoped opening the surf school would go some way to rectifying.
Thinking about his family made him pace the shoebox office. He hated confined spaces. Give him the ocean expanses any day. He never felt as free as he did catching a wave, paddling out to sea, with nothing between him and the ocean but an aerodynamic sliver of fibreglass.
Nothing beat the rush.
He heard the determined click-clack of high heels striding towards the office and turned in time to see Calista Umberto enter.
His stomach went into free fall, as it had the first time he’d caught a thirty-foot wave. That rush? Seeing Callie again after all these years topped it.
While he stared like a starstruck fool, she didn’t blink. In fact she didn’t seem at all surprised, which could only mean one thing.
She’d been expecting him.
In that second it clicked.
CJU Designs.
Calista Jane Umberto.
The fact he remembered her middle name annoyed him as much as discovering the online marketing whiz he’d been depending on for the last three years was the woman he’d once almost lost his mind over.
His Callie.
‘I’ll be damned,’ he muttered, crossing the small space in three strides, bundling her into his arms in an impulsive hug before he could process the fact that she’d actually taken a step back at his approach.
The frangipani fragrance hit him first—her signature bodywash that instantly resurrected memories of midnight strolls on a moonlit Capri beach, long, languorous kisses in the shade of a lemon tree, exploring every inch of the deliciously smooth skin drenched in that tempting floral scent.
Any time he’d hit an island hotspot to surf—Bali, Hawaii, Fiji—frangipanis would transport him back in time. To a time he remembered fondly, but a time fraught with danger, when he’d been captivated by a woman to the point of losing sight of the end game.
In the few seconds when her fragrance slammed his senses, he registered her rigid posture, her reluctance to be embraced.
Silently cursing himself, he released her and stepped back, searching her face for some sign that she remembered what they’d once shared.
Her lush mouth—with a ripe red gloss—flat-lined, but she couldn’t hide the spark in her eyes.
Flecks of gold in a rich, deep chocolate. Eyes he’d seen glazed with passion, sparkling with enthusiasm, lighting with love.
It was the latter that had sent him running from Capri without looking back. He’d do well to remember that before indulging in a spin down memory lane and potentially ostracising his marketing manager.
‘Good
