It’s Love, Dude

by Jenny Schwartz

  It's Love, Dude

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  It’s Love, Dude

  Jenny Schwartz

  From our favourite short story writer comes a debut full-length novel about sand, sun, small towns, and surfing...

  Zane Carlton is a World Champion surfer. Molly Georgiou is a shy, small-town girl. They have nothing in common except an instantaneous attraction and an impossible quest for a rare, endangered Australian marsupial. But Zane is determined to make it work, and invites Molly to take a step into his world. But Molly isn’t ready for the spotlights and attention — she loves her town, its quirks, its characters. Opposites attract, but can two such different people find both a woylie and forever?

  About the Author

  Jenny Schwartz is a West Australian author who dreams of living by the sea. Surfer dudes would be a nice addition to the scenery.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Chapter 1

  Zane Carlton grinned as he rested his butt on the railing that separated the cycle path from the top of the dunes. He was back home in Jardin Bay to bring glamour to the opening of a new skate park. No-one cared that he was a surfer and not a skateboarder. What mattered was that he was a World Champion surfer and a hometown boy. But for all that he was meant to be the main media drawcard; the journalists weren’t clustered around him.

  A few metres away, standing in the shade of a Norfolk pine tree, a bombshell brunette had the media pack salivating — and by the way she twisted one pretty foot around her other ankle, she didn’t know how to handle the attention.

  ‘Flip me,’ he muttered. ‘She’s shy.’

  It was cute. It was hot. The woman was a babe. Long, curly, black hair was pulled back in a ponytail revealing an oval face that would have looked like a medieval painting of the Madonna, all serene and beautiful, except that this woman’s mouth was quite simply lush.

  He took his time studying her figure.

  She wore an orange sweater. The early spring morning was still cool, so she’d probably thought the sweater was sensible. But the way she filled it out was an invitation to X-rated fantasies. Add in the narrow waist that flared out to a curvy bum, plus the knee length skirt that ended to reveal spectacular legs, and you had the reason the media had forgotten him.

  Only one journalist proved immune, and she was a middle-aged woman who’d buttonholed the local Member of Parliament, Greg Cooper.

  The brunette twisted the strap of her handbag around her fingers and appeared ready to bolt.

  Zane hadn’t caught her name, but he’d noticed her arrive with Greg Cooper. Evidently, the woman worked for him. Smart move. The local MP would have no trouble getting media attention despite his rumpled, grey appearance if he sent this woman to set up the gig.

  Although just now she was probably rethinking her career choice.

  Welcome to the big leagues, sweetheart.

  The additional media — the national sports journalists who’d driven down from Perth to Jardin Bay for the chance to interview him — were too much for her. They were brash, demanding and relentless. He knew. He’d been dealing with them for years.

  A good guy would haul ass and go rescue her.

  Zane frowned down at his brand-name sneakers.

  Everything he wore was brand-name. His sponsorship deals had set him up for life since winning the World Championship three years ago. In a bit over a year, he’d retire. Sure, 30 wasn’t old, but he wanted a life. Travelling the world sounded glamorous, but one competition blurred into the other. There were hangers-on and users everywhere. People started thinking stuff was important that he knew wasn’t. It was a life in a travelling bubble and he was sick of it. Crazy tired.

  He looked back at the woman.

  One more year, then he’d come back to Jardin Bay permanently.

  Once he was home he could think about chatting up a shy small-town girl who probably dreamed of forever. Probably had a boyfriend. Hell, for all he knew, she was dating some guy he went to high school with. Lucky bastard.

  She smiled suddenly.

  He saw the impact it had on the media: a moment of awe and then a surge forward. He looked for the man who’d won that smile.

  ‘Granddad?’

  ***

  Molly Georgiou had lost all feeling in two fingers of her right hand. She didn’t release the tangle-strangle of her handbag strap though. Gripping it was all that held her in place. She’d never known such a big and enthusiastic media turn out. Evidently the mayor was right and Zane Carlton was a major drawcard. However, if the media were so keen to interview him, she wished they’d go and do it. It wasn’t that she didn’t passionately agree with her boss’s position on youth unemployment and action programs, or that she wasn’t capable of outlining his views, it was just that she really, really wished she could have stayed quietly in the background instead of answering the media’s shouted questions. More than one journalist had suggested she answer their questions over lunch.

  She glanced across at Zane and saw him frowning at his feet. His sun-streaked brown hair fell into his eyes and curled against the collar of his shirt, which stretched over the typically muscled shoulders of a surfer. If he was bothered at losing media attention, it didn’t show.

  The few kids she’d rounded up from a local youth group to attend the opening had hit the new skate park and were shouting and showing off. Zane had been good with them, handing out some signed caps and borrowing a skateboard to demonstrate his own lack of prowess. He had natural balance though and he’d looked ‘way cool’ surrounded by the kids. There was something about a good-looking guy taking time out to listen to a kid that just ramped his hot factor to the nth degree.

  He handled the media with the same effortless alpha vibe. They hadn’t pressed in and invaded his personal space.

  ‘Zane hasn’t got a girlfriend, so you’re in with a chance. Girl like you, with your assets...’

  Molly’s head snapped around and saw one of the awful city journalists staring at her breasts.

  Yuck.

  He winked. ‘I could tell you stories about Zane.’

  ‘I thought you were here to get a story.’

  ‘Not Tony,’ a skinny, younger journalist said. ‘He makes up his stories. Now me, I’d listen to you. I could listen to you all day — and night.’

  Her skin crawled. Enough was enough. The skate park was officially open, she’d handed out press releases to everyone who’d accept one and she was leaving — if she could find a path through the media pack.

  ‘Ouch. Hey, old man! Watch where you’re — ow!’

  As the media pack stirred, she looked for the cause of the disturbance.

  One of Greg’s older constituents was cutting a path through the crowd, using his walking stick in a manner that verged on the illegal. Being hit on the ankle hurt, and a number of journalists were now hopping or bending over, rubbing their abused joints and swearing.

  Tom grinned.

  Molly grinned back. ‘My hero,’ she whispered as he reached her side and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow.

  Tom was 76 years old, tall and vigorous. The walking stick was a prop he used to emphasise his speech. He’d wave it around or stab the ground. A quick, practiced flick would transfer litter from the ground into an open ru
bbish bin. Tom and his walking stick were well-known in town. Now the out-of-town journalists had been introduced.

  Molly untangled her fingers from the strap of her handbag.

  ‘Granddad, what are you doing here?’ Zane loomed on Molly’s other side.

  He smelled like the ocean after a storm, clean and fresh, with a wild edge.

  ‘Granddad?’ She stared at Zane.

  The scattering of freckles over his nose and cheekbones seemed inappropriately boyish, especially with the note of suspicion in his low voice. His hazel eyes were bright with challenge.

  She swung around to study Tom. His eyes were the same hazel. ‘You’re Zane’s grandfather!’

  Tom’s eyes twinkled. ‘Have been for nearly 30 years.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s never come to any of my events before,’ Zane said.

  ‘And I haven’t now. I’m here to see my girl, Molly.’

  The journalists shuffled forward.

  Zane glared at them.

  They stared from him to Tom’s walking stick and shuffled back.

  ‘I think I see the family resemblance,’ Molly said. Her hand tightened on Tom’s arm as she realised how stupid she’d been. Jardin Bay wasn’t that big. Most people who knew Tom probably knew he was Zane’s grandfather, but surfers weren’t important in her world, so she’d never thought about Zane or made the connection.

  ‘What do you mean “Molly’s your girl”?’ Forget suspicious. Zane sounded flat out dangerous. ‘No. Don’t tell me here. The vultures are listening.’

  ‘Yeah, can you speak up?’ an anonymous voice cried from the pack.

  ‘Stupid way to make a living. Eavesdropping on people.’ Tom added his bit to the conversation.

  Zane’s mouth set in a straight line. ‘Let’s go.’ He gripped Molly’s free elbow.

  Lightning strike! Energy jolted through her.

  His hand was large, strong, inescapable and gentle.

  She blinked as her vision starred with light. In the shade of the Norfolk pine tree, the media were taking their photo, with flash.

  ‘Start walking,’ Zane growled.

  She tried to shrink closer to Tom, but Zane gave her a little tug. Off balance, she released Tom’s arm and found herself walking tight against Zane. Within a few strides, they were through the media pack and leaving them behind.

  ‘Granddad, where’s your car?’

  ‘I walked here.’

  ‘Fine. Then I’ll drive you home. As for you,’ he gave her arm a shake, ‘you’ll hop into your boss’s car, lock the doors, wind up the windows and not answer any questions.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, bewildered.

  ‘Better yet.’ He caught Greg’s eye and jerked his head towards the car. Greg hurried forward, beeping it open. ‘You can drive away straight away.’

  ‘Molly, are you all right?’ Greg caught at his tie as the wind flipped it over his shoulder. ‘I was going to rescue you but Trish held me up. That woman always has questions.’

  ‘I’m fine. And Trish’s questions keep you in the news.’

  ‘Huh.’

  Zane opened the passenger door and shovelled her in. For an instant, his body blocked the world from her. It felt weirdly intimate. Then he slammed the door shut.

  ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ Tom called.

  As Greg pulled out of the parking bay and accelerated away, Molly’s last glimpse of them was Zane scowling at his grandfather. The media pack was tapping at their smartphones.

  ***

  ‘Stupid sort of car.’ Tom hoisted himself into Zane’s new 4WD. ‘Look at all the gadgets. The more gadgets you have, the more that can go wrong with a car. Didn’t I teach you that, boy?’

  ‘Yeah.’ They’d had this conversation before. Tom couldn’t, or wouldn’t, accept that the shiny new cars Zane drove were part of his sponsorship deals. They were sweet rides, if soulless. ‘Granddad, you want to tell me who Molly is?’

  ‘Good looking girl, isn’t she?’

  Zane’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  Tom’s voice was fond. ‘She’s a good woman, too. Gonna be hell-on-wheels when she gets a bit of confidence. Just like your grandma.’

  Zane had never met his grandma who’d died young of cancer, but Joanne Carlton had been the love of Tom’s life. He’d gone off the rails when she died: drank, partied, had other women. Zane’s dad, Rob, had followed the same pattern. It was a pattern Zane was determined to break.

  There was a wildness in the Carlton men. For Zane, surfing channelled that energy, contained and focused it. His older brother, Brodie, had gone into the army straight from high school, and its discipline worked for him. He was a sergeant now, the sort of guy who didn’t joke around about semper fi, but lived it.

  One thing Zane had learned in his youth: It didn’t pay to butt heads with Tom. If the old man didn’t want to tell you something, he wouldn’t. But there were other ways to tackle the problem. Zane could tackle Molly directly. He would, too, if Tom clammed up. ‘So, how did you meet her?’

  There was a beat of silence, long enough for Zane to think he’d hit Tom’s brick wall. But then the old man answered.

  ‘I had a couple of problems.’

  Sly devil. His granddad had timed his answer perfectly. They were at his house.

  Zane pulled into the long driveway and stopped by the yard gate. The two dogs inside started barking, not recognising the strange car.

  ‘Shut up, idiots.’

  The dogs’ barking turned to happy whines as Tom opened the car door.

  Zane got out of the 4WD and walked around it. He knew the older dog, Buddy, and after a moment, the dog recognised him too. The younger dog looked affronted when Buddy allowed an ear scratch from him.

  Both were mutts. Tom always got his dogs from the local animal shelter and kept a couple in his junkyard. Not that it was a real junkyard, but Tom was a mechanic and he kept car parts here, including car bodies, for the restoration jobs he did.

  ‘Holly, sit.’

  The newest dog sat, and Tom made the introductions that changed Zane’s status from stranger to one of the few welcome guests. Holly got her ear scratch and they all walked on through the yard to the house.

  The house hadn’t changed. It was one of the town’s original fibro homes; three steps up, faded green walls and a timbered veranda with a porch swing. The dogs leapt up and lay on the swing chair. Their water and food bowls stood beside it. A worn mat said ‘Welcome’.

  Tom unlocked the security door that Brodie had installed last time he was home on leave. Now that was the way to handle their granddad: no questions, no debate, just do it.

  The back door opened into the kitchen. The old lino floor showed a distinct wear pattern from the door to the sink, and from the sink to the fridge and stove. Under the table, the pattern still held its original yellow flowers on a red background. The canisters displayed on the shelf above the stove matched the yellow of the flowers.

  Tom maintained the house, but he’d never renovated it. So it was a time-warp. Fixtures and fittings were from the 1950s. Even the furniture, when Tom replaced it, seemed much the same. In the lounge room, his reclining armchairs were always brown.

  While Tom put the kettle on, Zane spun a kitchen chair around and straddled it as he’d been doing since he was thirteen. The cuckoo clock on the wall chimed the hour with its ook-oo ook-oo call. As it ceased, the kettle built to a shrill whistle and was cut-off as Tom lifted it.

  ‘Rob stole my water money,’ Tom said abruptly.

  Zane stared at the back of his granddad’s head. It wasn’t news that his dad stole. Rob tended to help himself to what he needed. That was probably why Tom’s dogs were never taught to welcome him. ‘How much?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Molly sorted it.’

  Zane’s eyebrows climbed. True, his dad liked a pretty woman, but he liked them feisty. Shy Molly had no chance of shaking Rob down.

  Tom put two mugs of tea on the table and shoved a packet of choco
late biscuits towards Zane. ‘I didn’t reckon on Rob getting into the house. So I thought I’d paid the water money. Just thought it had gone off in the post as it should have. Instead, he opened the envelope, nicked the cheque and resealed the envelope. I got in a mess with the water company. They were sending me threatening letters and I — ’

  ‘You should have told me, Granddad. I’ve got money.’

  Tom’s mug hit the table. ‘It’s not the money. It’s the principle of the thing. No faceless bureaucrat was going to push me around. So I went to my local MP, Greg Cooper, and met Molly who works for him. Well, while she was sorting me out, Rob turns up. He’d had a win on the horses and was here to pay me back the money I’d lent him.’

  They both snorted.

  ‘I didn’t much like the water company jackass being right and me being wrong, but Molly saved me there. She found that they should have been giving me a pensioners’ rate. Dang computer stuff up. That girl doesn’t let go. She made them not only cancel my debt, but give me credit for what I’d been paying extra all these years, and write me an apologetic letter. I’ve still got that letter.’

  Zane ate a chocolate biscuit. It gave him time to think.

  Tom had always been short-tempered and independent. When Brodie and Zane were kids, they’d spent a fair bit of time at his house and hanging around his garage, long since sold. But he’d never seemed to care if they were there or not. If they were around at meal times, he fed them. If they skipped school, he just gave them chores. They’d shared space, but not emotional closeness.

  Zane grimaced. He was a guy, so it went without saying that he preferred to ignore his emotions. But he was also honest, and what he’d experienced at the skate park could only be described as jealousy.

  Never in his life had he looked to Tom for support. His granddad had never put himself out for him. Yet Molly saw Tom and her whole face lit up. She’d trusted that he was there to save her from the media, and she’d been right. Tom had come down to the skate park opening not for his grandson, but for Molly. There had to be more than a water bill between them.