Isla

01.

0 1 | b o n d i

"SHELLSIDE LAGOON SURF SHACK, ISLA HERE. HOW CAN I HELP YA?"

"Seven, tomorrow? Yes, that'll be great."

"Thank you for calling! Have a good one."

I hung up the phone, moving to the already overflowing bookings directory. Grabbing my pen, I quickly scribbled 'Janet, 4' under the 7AM slot.

It was summer in Shellside Bay, and that meant tourist season. Not only had I been receiving calls all morning to make bookings for the week, but it also meant my breaks ran short and my shifts ran long. At least the extra pay made up for it.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair and glancing at the clock – nearly six. I'd be off in fifteen minutes.

The Shellside Lagoon Surf Shack was not a big rental shop – hence the term shack – but it was sheltered, and a dusty fan wheezed in the corner – a small grace in the middle of Australia's hottest summer in decades.

I thought of Sky, my best friend. 

This was our first summer apart in years. She was off, volunteering somewhere in rural Cambodia, while I was stuck here, working from six in the morning every day and being yelled at by middle-aged European ladies.

I was jealous.

I shut the bookings directory with a heavy thud and leaned over the counter, watching the waves roll out across the coast. Children squealed from afar, babies cried, and old men in Speedos traipsed across the sand – far from the usual, idyllic atmosphere that usually reigned in Shellside Bay.

"Isla!"

I blinked, snapping out of my daze to see a shaggy blond-haired boy waving a hand in front of me – Connor Thompson.

He smiled, his tanned face freckled and blue eyes glittering in the sunlight. His surf suit was pulled low around his hips to expose his bare chest, glistening with drops of water.

"Thompson," I exclaimed, a wide smile stretching across my lips. He grinned in response, shoving a hand through his hair and pushing the damp locks back. "What's up?"

"When do you get off work?" He asked, nodding to his left. "River and Austin are getting the Nauti Buoy ready. You coming?"

Rolling my eyes, I turned to follow his gaze. Nauti Buoy was the idiotic name the local surfer boys had come up with for the Bennett's boat – or more accurately, Bennett's father's boat.

And just as he said, across the beach by the pier, River Bennet and Austin Wright were standing by the tinnie. River was busy untying the boat while Austin smiled wide at me, waving eagerly.

I warmed, turning away.

Working on a beach, I was used to seeing a lot of things.

I was used to cute shirtless boys. I was used to foreign surfers and men in budgie smugglers. I was used to old ladies letting their saggy tits free and wearing the skimpiest of bikinis.

But I would never get used to Austin Wright.

Especially a shirtless Austin Wright.

Instead, I glanced at the clock before turning back to Connor.

"Ten more minutes."

"Actually," a voice came. I turned, the back door opening to reveal Tom Buckner, my boss. Tom Buckner was a greying middle-aged man with a soft spot for the beach. He'd been running the Shack for decades now. Some would call him a true-blue bogan. "You can leave now. I'm closing the Shack up early."