The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks

by Monroe, Max

  A soft giggle left my lips. “Is she supportive of your career?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, and a reminiscent smile crested his lips. “In all honesty, both of my parents are one hundred percent supportive. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “Malibu.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  “What?” he asked, eyes light and amused. “What’s funny about Malibu?”

  “It just seems like a bit of a cliché.”

  “That’s rich coming from the city girl wearing heels to the beach.”

  “Hey,” I retorted, but my voice was anything but angry. “Sometimes you have to sacrifice for fashion.”

  He winked. “I’m a fan of your sacrifices.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I appreciate that, but stop trying to sweet-talk the journalist.”

  He raised both arms out in front of him. “I’m not sweet-talking.”

  Yeah, he was totally sweet-talking.

  And I knew I wasn’t the only journalist I’d heard him sweet-talk.

  Before the first day of the competition started, I’d overheard him doing an interview with a pretty female surfing blogger, and he didn’t hesitate to pull out all the stops for her benefit.

  Basically, Jordy is one of those adorable, charming, playful types of men who would almost always guarantee a good time. He isn’t an asshole or a jerk, but he also isn’t the kind of guy you settle down with.

  He is more vacation fling material than anything else.

  He’s twenty-three, at the peak of his surfing career, and his priorities revolve around those two facts.

  He would, no doubt, give you the best week of your life.

  And, of course, you’d miss the fun you guys had together, but when you got back home and reimmersed yourself in your normal routine, you would quickly understand that a guy like Jordy is meant for temporarily spicing up your life.

  He’s young. Amiable. Carefree. And spontaneous.

  While those certainly make for one hell of a good time, they’re not the right ingredients for a commitment-based cake, if you know what I mean.

  And honestly, just by the hordes of women I’d seen wandering around the gala and competition vying for his attention, it was obvious he had a never-ending supply of his kind of fun.

  I knew without a doubt, his kind of fun and my kind of fun were two very different things.

  Which made it pretty easy for me to stay focused on business. There wasn’t even the slightest temptation of adding a side of Jordy-fueled pleasure to the mix.

  “Can we get back to the interview?” I flashed a knowing look in his direction.

  “By all means,” he said with a grin. “Hit me with your next question.”

  “Okay, prepare yourself for fast questions and even quicker answers. We’re going full-on lightning round.”

  The point of the lightning-round questions wasn’t necessarily to gather pertinent information, but more to put my interviewee at ease and get them relaxed and in the moment enough to give me candid responses for the important questions.

  Seeing as Mr. Surfing Casanova had already veered us off topic twice, it was needed.

  “All right.” He sat up in his seat a little and made a show of cracking his knuckles. “Let’s do this.”

  “What did you eat for breakfast this morning?”

  “Protein pancakes.”

  “Why do you love surfing?”

  “Freedom.”

  “If you had to choose between Blake Lively and Anna Kendrick, who would you go on a date with?”

  “Uh…shit…I guess if I had to choose, I’d go with Blake Lively.”

  “What do you mean, if you had to choose?” I quirked a brow in his direction. “Neither of those women tickle your fancy?” I asked as I typed a few notes from our conversation into my phone.

  He shrugged. “I’m more of a Megan Fox kind of guy.”

  “So, sexy, bombshell brunettes are your thing?”

  “They’re my kryptonite,” he answered with zero hesitation and a little wink to punctuate. “Although, I’m finding that quirky redheads are pretty intriguing as well.”

  “Shut up,” I said on a laugh, but before I could add to that, an all-too-familiar voice filled my ears.

  “Why don’t you tell her about the sixty-footer that gave you an extra ten-point lead in the competition?”

  Ollie stepped up toward us, and I had to squint my eyes toward the sun just to read the expression on his face.

  It wasn’t nice, and it wasn’t friendly. If anything, the strong lines of his jaw and tight pull of his full lips into a firm line showcased irritation. Annoyance, even.

  “It was gnarly,” Jordy responded and smirked in my direction. “I felt like the surf gods themselves had blessed me with a miracle by laying that beauty at my feet.”

  “Sixty-footer. That’s incredible.” I grinned at Jordy, and just as I was typing an additional note into my phone, I heard, “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

  I looked up to meet Ollie’s eyes and realized he wasn’t talking to Jordy. No, he was talking to me.

  “Right now?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s that important?”

  “Yes.”

  The seriousness of his tone made me feel like I had to give in to his request.

  I mean, I had no idea what he needed, but I figured it must be important if he was interrupting an interview. And to be honest, silently, I started to fear something had happened to Allie…

  “Oh, okay,” I said and stood up from my chair, grabbing my shoes and purse from the ground. “Jordy, are you taking the bus back to the hotel?”

  He nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  One of the nice things about the way the competition was set up was that all of the competitors, journalists, and sponsors stayed in one hotel, and daily transportation was provided to and from the events. Not to mention, the increased security that kept overzealous fans from overwhelming the surfers.

  It was perfect for a journalist like me.

  Even if I didn’t manage to snag the interviews I wanted during the competition, I was almost always guaranteed to run into the surfers during the rides to and from the hotel. And I was hoping they wouldn’t mind talking about themselves—their lifestyle, their personalities, the kind of fearlessness it had to take to go out there day after day—in addition to the surfing. If I had any hope of making these articles something worthy of reading, I knew I needed a different angle than a regular sports commentator.

  “Mind if we finish this on the ride back?”

  “Not at all.” He shook his head and smiled softly. “I’ll save you a seat.”

  “Hey, Jordy!” A photographer holding a camera grabbed his attention from the other side of the tent just as he stood. “Mind if we grab a few photos of you?”

  “Of course,” he answered without hesitation, and I looked toward Ollie.

  “Do you want to go somewhere private or…?”

  He nodded. “Follow me.”

  I turned on my bare feet to follow his lead, but after about two minutes of walking up the beach and back toward the gated parking lot where the transportation buses were located, I dug my heels into the sand and stopped.

  “Is there a reason we’re walking this far?” I asked, and Ollie turned around to find I was no longer following him.

  It only took four long, easy strides for him to backtrack toward me.

  “What kind of articles are you planning on writing?” he asked, and I scrunched up my nose at his words.

  “What?”

  “For Scoop,” he added, his lips still firm, his jaw slightly clenched.

  His question felt…invasive. And his eyes were clouded with something I couldn’t quite discern. But, if anything, it felt like judgment and disapproval.

  I put a hand to my hip and stared up into his scrutinizing brown eyes. “What are you trying to say here, Ollie?�
��

  “You know exactly what I’m trying to say.”

  My jaw damn near hit the ground. “Are you saying I’m shitty at my job?”

  “You don’t know anything about surfing, do you?” he asked, and I hated how all-knowing and self-righteous he looked in that moment.

  If I’m being honest, guys, I wanted to smack him.

  I didn’t, but holy hell, the urge was strong.

  But my defensive claws? Yeah, they were out. Sharpened. Pointed. Fucking ready to fight back.

  “I might not know all the ins and outs of this competition like you do,” I started, and my mouth was so full of sass, I could taste its bitter flavor on my tongue. “But I do know everything there is to know about journalism and what readers want to see. I know how their brains tick and how long their attention span is and how to gain their interest. And I most certainly, without a doubt, know how to do my fucking job.”

  “You could’ve fooled me,” he retorted, and skepticism dripped from his voice like honey. “I mean, I’m no world-class journalist, but the questions about breakfast and celebrity dates sure as hell didn’t feel all that award-winning, little fire.”

  “Stop calling me that!” I spat, and before I knew it, I’d lifted one of my shiny stilettos and chucked it straight toward his big, egotistical head.

  [pauses and sighs]

  Sidenote: it wasn’t my proudest moment, guys, but hells bells, he drove me crazy.

  I mean, the audacity of him not only interrupting my interview, but also questioning my abilities as a journalist? Yeah, I was fired the fuck up.

  Ollie dodged the shoe like Neo from the Matrix, and when his eyes met mine, he was full on grinning.

  It’s safe to say that stupid grin didn’t help douse my anger.

  No sirree, Bob. It only added fuel to the already inferno-like flames.

  He leaned down, picked up my stiletto off the sand, and held it up in the air like he’d found the golden fucking ticket of ways to tease me.

  “Heels?” he asked. “At the beach? I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure the long, thin spike on these things means they’re not a sandal, right?”

  I gritted my teeth. “I’m pretty certain I kind of hate you.”

  He laughed off my words. “You don’t hate me.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I hate you,” I spat back. “Which says a lot, because I don’t even hate Tiago, and he’s completely hateable.”

  “Tiago?” he questioned with a quirk of his brow, and another wave of anger filled my belly over how damn intrigued and curious he looked. “Is that another one of your ex-boyfriends?”

  “He’s none of your business.” I stepped forward and snatched my shoe back out of his hand. “Just like the questions I ask during interviews are also none of your business.”

  “Oh, but they kind of are,” he said, and a little, knowing smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. “See, I own Surf Arsen, and you’re here because of my company. I could easily change that if I chose to.”

  I glared. “What do you mean by that? You planning on pulling out of the advertising contract you signed with Scoop?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what are you trying to say here?”

  “I’m just looking out for you,” he said.

  “Looking out for me?” I questioned in outrage. “What the hell? You just interrupted my interview! I’m no rocket scientist, but that feels like the complete opposite of looking out for me. Which I don’t need, by the way. I’m not a fucking child.”

  “You sure about that?” he winked and nodded toward the shoes hanging from my right hand. “Throwing shoes doesn’t exactly prove that statement, little fire.”

  I wanted to tell him to shut the hell up.

  I wanted to throw both of my shoes at him.

  I also still wanted to slap that dumb, irritating smirk off of his stupid handsome face.

  But instead, I took a big, deep breath and tried to keep the wrath that boiled inside of me under control.

  “Are you like this with everyone?” I questioned. “Or is it just me? Because I’m having a hell of a time understanding how you have any friends if you’re like this all the damn time.”

  “Are you like this with everyone?” he retorted back with a stupid smirk. “Or is it just me?”

  He had a point.

  Most people knew me as a laid-back, easygoing kind of gal.

  But for some unknown reason, Ollie brought out my most extreme emotions.

  The effect he had on me was stupefying.

  I’d never thrown a shoe at someone in my whole entire life, never even been tempted. Yet ten minutes into a conversation with him, and I didn’t hesitate to throw my stiletto at his giant, arrogant head.

  Hell, I feared if I stayed around any longer, I’d end up capitalizing on that slap across the face my hand had been itching to dish out.

  “Oh. My. God,” I said on an exasperated groan. “I’m literally walking away from you right now before I stab you with my stiletto.”

  Yeah, I was done.

  Just done.

  In that moment, I had to walk away from him.

  Seriously, you guys. It felt like a life-or-death kind of decision.

  If I’d continued to stand there, who the heck knows what would’ve happened.

  I turned in the opposite direction and stomped my feet across the sand as I walked up the beach and away from the event tent, away from every-fucking-thing, away from the most annoying man on the planet.

  I needed a minute.

  Any minute, as long as it included a reprieve from the biggest jerk I’d ever met in my entire life.

  * * *

  With the warm sun on my skin, the smooth breeze brushing across my face, and my toes pushing into the plush sand, I walked.

  Every stride, every step, eased the current irritation Ollie had caused.

  And God, it felt good just to walk with no destination in mind. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done something like that.

  When it came to city living and navigating New York, I generally didn’t leave my apartment unless I had somewhere to go. I didn’t walk for the sake of walking. I’m sure some people do, but not this gal.

  With Bali at my feet, I enjoyed the tropical view. I savored the sun and even moved a little closer to the sea to feel the water splash between my toes.

  I had no idea how long I’d walked, but when I stopped to take a quick photo of the pretty view for memories’ sake, I glanced over my shoulder to find the big white tent didn’t look so big anymore.

  It was a tiny blip in the distance, and I realized I needed to head back before I found myself lost.

  [pauses]

  A word of advice, guys. Don’t do what I did and just go walking by yourself on a beach in a foreign country. That’s, like, asking for Dateline kind of shit to happen.

  Obviously, nothing bad happened.

  But the buddy system was created for a reason.

  By the time I reached the white tent, it was no-man’s-land.

  Shit. How long have I’ve been gone? I silently wondered to myself as I swiped the residual sand from my feet. I slipped my heels back on and headed in the direction of the hotel buses.

  But when I reached the private parking lot, I stopped frozen in my tracks.

  Buses? Gone.

  Cars? Gone.

  Parking lot? Completely empty.

  [sighs again]

  See what I mean, guys?

  Do not ever do what I did.

  It wasn’t good. Those damn buses were my only form of transportation.

  While I prayed to God that Bali had Uber, I reached into my purse to pull out my phone.

  But before I could tap on the Uber app, three words filled my ears.

  “Need a ride?”

  Following the voice, I looked to my left, and for some stupid reason, my heart rate kicked up in speed and my breath got tangled up inside my lungs.

  Ollie stood in the parking lot,
his black leather jacket-clad arms crossed over his chest and his hip resting against the seat of a shiny black motorcycle.

  My first thought was damn, it should be illegal for a man to look that good.

  And my second thought? Does he ever use a mode of transportation that has an actual roof?

  “I guess everyone left,” I stated dumbly, and he smirked.

  “About an hour ago.”

  I blinked, and my mouth dropped open. “I’ve been gone that long?”

  He nodded. “Pretty long.”

  “What are you still doing here?”

  “I wanted to make sure you got back to the hotel okay.”

  The biggest jerk in the whole fucking world wanted to make sure I got back to the hotel okay?

  If you are also shocked by that statement, we’re on the same page.

  “Seriously?” I asked, and he just nodded again.

  “As serious as you are about your shoes.”

  I had to fight not to roll my eyes at his teasing jab.

  “C’mon,” he said, uncrossing his arms as he stood. “Hop on. I’ll take you back.”

  “That’s okay. I can just get an Uber.”

  “Get on the bike, Lucky,” he demanded and held out a helmet for me.

  I didn’t like his demand, but I also didn’t make any moves to walk away.

  “How do you even have a motorcycle in Bali?” I asked with a defiant hand to my hip. “It makes zero sense.”

  “One of my best mates lives here,” he said by way of explanation. “Whenever I’m in town, he lets me borrow his.”

  “So, it’s not yours?”

  He shook his head. “No, this one isn’t mine.”

  “Have you driven one of these before?” I asked, and for some crazy reason, my legs starting moving directly toward the bike, toward Ollie. And next thing I knew, I stood a few measly inches from him.

  “I’ve been riding motorcycles since I was sixteen,” he said, and amusement lit up his brown eyes. “Consider it my third-favorite hobby.”

  “Third-favorite?” I tilted my head to the side. “What’re your first two?”