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11: The parties will not meet each other's families.

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Victoria was freezing.

Bells Beach was colder.

Honey unfastened the belt on her white coat and reknotted it tighter, stepping out of the shadow of the dark blue WSL flag and into a patch of sun. Once, she hadn't minded brisker weather. She loved winter fashion, and she'd always preferred being too cold over being sweltering hot. Her family's move from the Victorian coast to Brisbane when she started high school was a hard adjustment; the tropical climate didn't agree with her at first. The humid air stuck to her skin and made her hair so frizzy that she could have been mistaken for a bird's nest. Worst of all, she hadn't known how on earth to dress for thirty-four-degree heat.

She'd adjusted soon enough. Had a feeling it had something to do with the three students who'd befriended her during her first week at her new school: the onyx-haired goddess who recommended new hair products; the softly spoken brunette who smuggled Honey refrigerated bottles of water from the teacher's lounge; the miniature Anna Wintour with vibrant copper hair who had quickly taken Honey under her wing, helping her put her impressive allowance to good use.

And so for them—and them only—Honey obliged Daisy's request in the group chat, plucking her hands out of her coat pockets to snap a quick photo of the crowded beach. It was a stretch of sand tucked into the coast of a quaint seaside town a few miles down from Torquey. One solitary cliff stood sentry over some rocks, topped with high grasses that hissed at the wind's will like snakes. The lapping water was a mixture of bright blues and rich greens, the mighty waves unfurling on the shore as a ghost of what they'd been out at sea. That morning, the swell was dotted with surfers wearing bright lycra that made them look like exotic birds of paradise as they barreled through watery tunnels and slashed through rolling waves.

Honey sent the picture, then took another of the horizon, as if she could encourage the sun to shine just a bit brighter. Gosh. It had barely been a day, and she already missed the Brisbane heat. She vaguely recalled visiting Bells for family picnics as a child, but the location had only graced the Valentine's social calendar once or twice; Honey's family was less beachy keen, more country-club chic. She had a suspicion that her dad still held a grudge against the sand for daring to venture into his Louboutin loafers.

Not a photo of the beach, you dag, came Daisy's response. Of Adam! The cameraman's angle is shocking!

She must have been watching the livestream. The reminder that the event was being broadcasted had Honey stepping into the shadow of her beach umbrella, even if it left her ten times colder. She popped on her sunglasses and brought her white scarf over her head.

Which practically screamed heiress-in-hiding.

Oh well. She supposed the whole point of being there in the first place was to be seen. Resigned to her fate, Honey aimed her phone toward the ocean and searched for—

There.

Adam took off with the next wave, instantly finding his footing on his bright red board. He was dressed in yellow lycra—a terrible choice for his jersey. He looked much better in blues and blacks and whites. Objectively speaking, of course. Honey would have to speak to someone about changing his jersey colour, though she had read online that the colours had something to do with rankings—

"Attached already?"

Honey quickly lowered her phone, flinching when a broad hand landed on her shoulder. It was only a gentle, friendly tap, and it wasn't like she hadn't known that the male the hand belonged to was standing right beside her. Still. Sometimes it was hard to shake off old habits.

Honey consulted Bear Cohen sidelong. His heat had been earlier that morning, and his shoulder-length brown hair was still damp with the memory of his win. Honey still didn't know much about surfing, but she knew he'd done well. He'd also beelined right over to her when he was done talking to journalists. They'd been standing together and watching Adam's heat ever since.

Bear returned her dry expression with a shit-eating grin that almost mirrored Adam's exactly, minus the dimples. "Just can't get enough of the Rip, can you? Don't worry," Bear crooned. "Most women can't."

"My friends asked for a picture of him." Honey slipped her phone into her purse. "That's all."

"Do they want one of me, too?" Bear feigned his best cheesy grin. "I am single, you know."

Honey snorted. "Unfortunately, they're not."

"Unfortunately for them, you mean."

Honey gave him her best whatever you say expression and turned back to the sea. Adam finished his maneuver, and from the rush of nervous energy that rippled through the crowd watching on from the shore, Honey gathered that he'd done something reckless. As per usual. She was quickly learning how Adam had earned his Rip moniker; he was fearless on the water. Actually, he never had any fear anywhere. She didn't know if she'd ever met someone who lived like that. Who just ... lived. Lived first, thought later.

And maybe that wasn't any better than how she approached life—all research and list-making and second-guessing every little choice until she was sure she had what it took to deal with each possible worst-case scenario. Honey studied the bottom of the ocean floor from the side of the boat. Scrutinised every stone and shadow.

Adam just dived in.

He did exactly that when the next wave came. A mammoth of a thing. The surfer with priority went to chase it. Hesitated.

Adam didn't.

He was rewarded with a 9.60.

Honey caught herself clapping with everyone else too late. When she stuffed her hands into her fuzzy pockets and tossed a coy look around the beach to see if anyone had noticed, Bear was eyeing her sidelong, wearing a tilted smirk.

"Stop it," she muttered.

"It's nice."

"What is?"

"This." Bear squinted against the glare as he looked out to the horizon, the horn blaring to signal the end of the heat. "It's good—to see someone here for him."

Honey blinked. She knew that Adam and his dad were estranged, but ... "I thought his mum came occasionally?"

"Exactly. Occasionally. Not her fault, of course. She was sick a while back."

"She was?"

"Cancer." Bear frowned. "You didn't know that?"

Right. A girlfriend should know that.

"What about his team?" she asked quickly. Adam's manager was around. Somewhere ...

Bear scoffed. "Teams don't count. We're just dollar signs to them. No offence." Honey, Adam's publicist, rolled her eyes in jest. Bear glanced at the leaderboard as it was updated. "I guess those supermodel friends of his have started coming every now and then, too, but only ever for a day or so."

Honey went rigid. "Supermodels?"

"Yeah. Weird names ..." Bear cocked his head, thinking. "Ezekiel and ... and Hunter, maybe?"

Honey grinned at the comparison of Hunt and Adam's other best friend, Ezra, to supermodels. Oh, they'd love that.

Then she pretended not to feel relieved that Bear hadn't been referring to the other kind of supermodels.

"But this ... You ..." Bear shrugged, waving at another surfer as he aimed for the private pavilions set up at the beach's rear. "It's just ... nice."

An odd sensation sparked in Honey's chest. It was gone just as quickly, and she cleared her throat, bidding Bear farewell when he told her he'd better go do 'the rounds'.

"Networking, and all that fun stuff." Bear groaned, then leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "Hells Beach, indeed."

Honey didn't flinch when his hand landed on her back as he embraced her that time. She returned his goodbye, offering a small smile, and watched him join the group clad in colourful jerseys gathering at the shoreline. She had the oddest feeling.

Like she was being watched.

Her eyes knew where to go. They found him instantly.

Adam.

His shoulder-length hair was unbound and sopping, his eyes as bright as the ocean behind him. He narrowed them from amidst a ring of reporters on the shore. His scowl deepened when his gaze slid from Honey to Bear, then back again. His jaw ticked. Honey felt his irritation like a bite of flame.

Well. Honey crossed her arms with a huff. What was it to him who she was friends with? They weren't really dating. As for their Partnership, she had as many reasons as he did not to mess it up. More, even. And she liked Bear. So what? He might have had some PR-concocted rivalry with Adam, but he was the only person on that beach making an effort to get to know her. Girls and guys could just be friends. Not necessarily in her overall experience, but ...

But she was sure they could be.

Adam broke rank with the press quickly, shooting a placating smile at the judges as he stalked toward the slash of sand where Honey had set up camp. Despite the brisk weather, it was a beautiful afternoon from an aesthetic viewpoint. The sky was a clear French blue, punctuated by the occasional whisper of a cloud like icing sugar dusted on a blueberry glaze. But as Adam prowled closer, Honey had a feeling that the warmth gathering under her skin had little to do with the weather. His legs were powerful, the muscles in his thighs shifting through the tight, wet lycra as he walked ...

Thighs.

Honey tried not to think about—

It didn't happen. She wiped invisible dust from her coat. Forced the memory away. That Night didn't happen. It was just a dream. A filthy, disgusting dream.

A shameful, vile dream.

A mortifying, spine-chilling, leg-shaking, world-shattering, sexy and orgasmic dr—

"Not bad, Wildcard."

Adam had stopped a few feet away. One of the surfers from his heat had sneered at him when they crossed paths, daring to bump into Adam's shoulder. Honey knew enough about Adam to know that his younger self wouldn't have taken that sleight lying down. This Adam was older. More mature. He might have been reckless, but he wasn't volatile. Wasn't a fool.

No. After watching him out on the waves twice now, Honey knew that Adam was quite brilliant. A strategist, she thought. An artist, too.

He smirked at the other surfer. The latter was a lot younger than they were—nineteen, maybe—and had shaggy dark blonde hair. He was tall and lean and his features were cut neatly. A pretty boy through and through. But his striking face was set in a scowl.

"You took my wave."

Adam shrugged coolly. "You lost priority. You know how it works."

The surfer scoffed, his hazel eyes alight with prideful wrath. Honey felt an urge to step forward. Didn't know why, and caught herself before she'd taken more than just a small step.

"Anyway," Adam went on, looking out toward the sea indifferently, "serves you right for what you did to Cohen at Libertad."

The nineteen-year-old mirrored Adam's earlier shrug. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah you do. I respect the game, mate. I know you do, too. But it's best you learn now: playing dirty only gets you so far."

The boy took the advice in. His scowl wilted. But he swept a cocky glance over Adam's hulking frame. "Whatever." He smirked. "I'll see you in Rio."

Adam just grinned back, throwing a wink over his shoulder. "That you will."

The boy huffed an irritated grunt, and then he was stalking back to his tent.

"God, he's a cocky thing," Adam said to Honey by way of a greeting. "Good. But bloody cocky."

"He's the wildcard?" she asked.

"Yep. Elijah Kovač."

Honey didn't recognise the name.

"He'll go places, too," Adam said, pulling his drink bottle from the duffel bag Honey had been guarding at her feet. "So long as he does things the right way."

"Nice of you to take a competitor under your wing."

"Nah. He's not my competitor."

"You just said that he's good."

"He is." Adam took a long swig, then wiped his mouth on his towel, flashing a toothy smile. "I'm better."

"Now who's cocky?"

Why did his eyes light up when she said that?

She hugged her arms tighter around herself as Adam began disassembling her makeshift campsite.

"Are you ... done?" she asked. Had she blinked and missed the finals?

"Yeah. The swell's too weak. Finals are on for tomorrow so long as the rain holds off."

Well. There went Honey's plans for not spending one second longer in her hometown than palatable. Darned Victorian weather.

Adam swung his duffel onto his shoulder, grabbing her purse with his other hand.

"I've got it," she insisted.

He held it out of her reach. "Clause fifteen, Cookie."

Public displays of affection are limited only to displays that would directly and greatly improve the general public's perception of the Partnership.

"Our fans are watching," he whispered.

Honey tracked  his subtle glance to a trio of journalists. They weren't writing anything down or whispering into tape recorders, but Honey knew as well as he did that they were always taking notes.

She rose to her tiptoes. And kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you. Darling."

His eyes flashed. Whatever. If he was going to play the doting boyfriend, then she was going to play the lovesick girlfriend. Damn him if he thought he'd come out of their Partnership looking better than her.

"Good work today," she whispered when her mouth hovered by his ear. She didn't know why she'd whispered. Wasn't the whole point of being supportive to be seen and heard being supportive?

Adam rested his hand on her lower back to steady her, placing his mouth by her ear to murmur, "Thanks, Hon."

Hon.

She cleared her throat, righting herself, and led the way back to his tent. "You need to get rid of that thing by the way." At his puzzled stare, she nodded to the red leather jacket that she could see poking out of his bag. "It's not cute."

"Hey!" Adam pulled the offensive garment out. "This thing is older than our relationship."

"Not a flex," she muttered, mostly to herself.

"It's my coach's. And my good luck charm. It's very sentimental."

"It's not your colour."

"Oh?" He cleared the way into his tent for her, letting her slip into the veritable windbreak first. "And what is my colour?"

She didn't balk. "Blue."

Adam's eyes widened with surprise before he blinked it away, retreating into arrogance. "Is that so? And do you often think about what sort of clothes I look good in? I've always been a less is more kind of guy, if that matters."

It didn't.

"Of course I think about it. And you should, too. You're a product, Adam, and products need to look appealing."

"The best kinds of products serve all sorts of purposes. Should I list mine?"

Honey ignored him, revealing, "I had a colour analysis done." She pulled a file out of her purse, turned to the page for proof, and pretended not to see the smug expression Adam was wearing as he gazed down at her. "You need to wear more whites and blues. Black at night. And get rid of the red leather jacket, for goodness sake."

"At night?" Adam's voice dropped an octave. "You've been thinking about what I wear at night? Because I could solve that mystery for you right here and now, sweet—"

"Adam." Honey shoved the analysis into his chest. "Read up, Wonder Boy. You're going to be a whole new man when I'm done with you."

"Wonder Boy?" She heard him grin as she strutted away, aiming for the coffee cart in the parking lot. He might have said something else as she slipped out of the tent to leave him to change, like he couldn't quite decide which comeback to wield, so he just blurted them all.

It would have been endearing, had she liked him.

Which she didn't.

Honey walked faster. She needed an espresso. Pronto.

Bear intercepted her on her way back from the coffee cart, stealing the chocolate chip cookie she'd bought for Adam and taking a bite. She slapped him on the arm gently, and he chuckled, handing the cookie back. "Vicious. I see why the Rip likes you."

"And I see why he doesn't like you."

Bear frowned pitifully. "He said that?"

Honey rolled her eyes. She made to break away, tossing a quick look out to the sea, and pulled her own white chocolate cookie from the paper bag—

Ice-cold terror pounded through her.

She dropped the cookie. It fell face down in the sand.

"Now that's just wasteful ..." Bear said before catching a glimpse at her face.

Her head whirled. Her heart pounded, and the air in her lungs thickened like she was underwater, holding her breath—

"Princess?" Bear was beside her in an instant. His hand fell to her arm, tentative that time. "Is everything alright?"

Honey blinked. She turned to Bear, shell-shocked. She hated the worry she saw in his pillow-soft gaze and tried to smile. "Of course."

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

Honey wished she had. "I just ... I bit my tongue."

"You dropped your cookie."

"That, too."

A long pause.

"Can I have it?"

Honey conceded with a laugh, hearing that it was strained, but Bear just picked up her snack, dusted it off, and scoffed it down in two bites as he vowed to go buy her another one.

She grabbed him by the arm before he slipped away, nodding toward the shore. She made her voice sound light. Casual. "Hey?"

Bear furrowed his brow. "Hey ... ?"

"Um. Is that ..." Gosh. She couldn't even say the name. Still?

She didn't have to.

Bear chewed as he trailed her stare. "Ah. Fey Rostenberg?"

Honey tensed, but Bear didn't seem to notice as he snorted, wiping his mouth on the green towel draped around his shoulders.

"Yep. The nepo baby bought out Arona Liqour's new organic beer division." Bear swallowed the last of the cookie, then winked."Fey's your boy's new sponsor."

The ice in Honey's veins melted, flooding her. She was numb. What Bear said ... No. It couldn't be right ... She would have known.

"When did this happen?" Honey hadn't heard anything about Arona being bought out, and she kept one eye on acquisitions like Daisy did fashion.

"It was announced before the first heat yesterday."

Honey loosed a breath, exasperated. That explained it. She'd only flown in for the competition the night before, arriving at her bed and breakfast at 11 p.m. and promptly going to her room. She hadn't even seen Adam until after breakfast that morning.

"Doesn't seem like it's been in the works for too long, though," Bear added. "From what I hear, Arona was desperate for a surge of cash to keep their Qualifying Series' sponsorship."

A surge of cash that a man like Fey Rostenberg sat on like a red-eyed dragon atop a pile of treasure. The baller-turned-entrepreneur looked comically out of place on the shore amidst six-foot athletes dripping in sweat and seawater. Fey was the lovechild between a tech tycoon and a Turkish supermodel. He attended boarding school in England and bore a slick Cornwall accent as proof. His weekends were spent playing golf and watching polo, and the closest thing to a workout he'd ever taken part in was the time a dry cleaner had ruined his custom