Page 5 of Surviving in Clua


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He straightens his stance and clears his throat, eyes widening as they flick above my head. “You… I… Sorry, man.” He holds up his hands and backs up, then turns and legs it across the sand to his friends.

I shake my head. Even his buddies have stopped laughing. It’s only then that I feel it—the presence behind me. Well, actually I smell it—him. Beach days, fabric conditioner, and… man.

I turn and almost face-plant into a chest—his chest. My head snaps back and my gaze collides with a familiar gray stare. My mouth drops open. I close it immediately. I’d almost convinced myself that I’d been exaggerating. That he wasn’t all that. That he wasn’t the stuff day dreams and fantasies were made of.

“You okay?” The rat-bat himself—my missing neighbor—my—Mylogrowls out, glaring past me.

He has a beard, and no shirt, and he’s sweating, and… why the hell did nobody tell me he was back?

My mouth opens again, I close it again, heart thumping in my chest with the reason our baby friendship fizzled before it popped, vivid and relentless. Hands, mouths, tongues, teeth. I press my lips together to stop them from parting. Force myself to remember what came after, then shakethatthought loose before it can take hold, taking a not-subtle-in-the-slightest step out of his space. “You’re back.”

“I am.” His lips twitch and the rough rumble of his voice ripples down the back of my neck. His hair is coming loose from the knot on top of his head, thick and dark blond. He looks like a Viking—a Goddamn Viking in basketball shorts and sneakers.

It should put me off. I don’t like beards—I didn’t. I scowl. Idon’t. I drag my teeth over my bottom lip. I wish I didn’t.

Determined not to look up into his face, I end up staring at the black and gray tattoos that cover his left shoulder and the whole of his arm, at the scars beneath them. Not helping. My gaze flicks to his chest. Nope. Face it is.

Whatever he sees when his eyes scan my mine has him releasing a long sigh and raising his gaze to the sky. “Kenzi, I—”

“Don’t.” I hold my hand up. I know thatKenzi.It’s theKenzithat comes before excuses and forced explanations. I’ve not seen him in months or spoken to him in even longer. And, if I have my way, him being back on the island won’t change that.

I have a man-ban to uphold. I straighten my spine, square my shoulders and plaster on my best tip-winning smile. “I best be getting home. Enjoy your run.”

His jaw goes hard, tawny eyebrows knitting. “I’ll walk you back.”

I shake my head. “No. You won’t.”.

TWO

Kenzi

Running is my stress relief, my happy place, my fail-safe calming mechanism when I’m frustrated, and as of last night, I’m officially frustrated.

Squinting against the bright morning light, I step out into the street in front of my apartment building. It’s only 9AM, but the sun’s already blistering. I bend forward, grab the toes of my neon pink Nikes, and breathe into the stretch regardless. I’m out now—time to get to it. Pulling back up again, I bounce on the balls of my feet, shake out my arms, then set off at a fast walk to warm up.

Bright pink Mexican vines wind around the thick trunks of the Big Leaf Magnolias that line the path I turn down. I pull in their sweet floral scent and break into a jog, moisture already prickling over my forehead. The stippled shade from the huge leaves above me dims the light, but my cropped sports top is already clinging. I blow out a breath, clear my mind and pick up my pace. To the Beach Hut for breakfast with Rae and Jo, then back. I need this.

I focus on the beach at the end of the shaded path and the sparkling ocean beyond. Concentrate on my breathing and pick up my speed again until I finally find it—the zone—the perfect pace to breath ratio. The nerves over telling my mom and everybody else about my plans for the restaurant fade to nothing more than a distant hum. Even the hurt at finding out that Mylo’s back and nobody told me pipes down to barely more than white noise.

Muscles warm, I push a little harder, fixate on the rhythmic thump of my feet against the cobblestones and the rush of oxygen to my lungs.

“Zi, wait up.”

Daz? Seriously?

I push myself into a sprint. If I can just make it to the—

“Zizi.” A big hand clasps my shoulder a second before my foot hits the beach-side walkway.

My thighs tremble when I stop, but not in the good way. Running into an ex is never fun, but really? It had to be now?

My shoulders drop and I prepare myself for the sight of him with the woman he started dating before he remembered to finish with me. They’re usually joined at the hip, as my mom would put it. They have been since I walked up on them making out behind The Beach Hut.

“Daz, hey.” I turn on my best I-don’t-want-to-punch-you-in-the-throat smile in the face of his infuriating hotness. “I didn’t hear you. Where’s Kirst?” I peek over his shoulder in case her skinny ass is behind him.

He drags his hand over his perfectly groomed five o’clock shadow, his gaze sliding down my black top, my bare stomach to my matching running shorts. “Finished it.” Dark eyes rimmed with lashes so thick I’m almost positive he has them tinted meet mine and his lips pull into a smirk I used to find attractive—okay, still do. I’m not blind. The man is hot. Real hot. He’s also self-centered, conceited and a cheat.

“Miss me?” He slides his thumbs into the waistband of his super short training shorts.

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