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better looking than her ex-boyfriend and a lot more fun. Her brow darkened at the memory of the double-crossing liar she’d gone out with for two years. She’d assumed they were rock-solid and then he’d gone and cheated on her. Six months on, even though she couldn’t care less about him anymore, the humiliation still rankled.
    At that moment Ollie emerged from the bar with the drinks. He plonked his pint on the wall and handed her a glass with a lurid pink cocktail umbrella sticking out of it.
    ‘So, Lara Rawlinson,’ he said. ‘Tell me all about yourself. You can’t have been in St Grace for very long or I would have spotted you by now.’
    Lara took a cautious sip of her drink and gasped in surprise. It tasted of Cointreau.
    ‘This isn’t orange juice,’ she said.
    ‘I know,’ said Ollie, a mischievous look in his eyes. ‘I thought you must be joking when you said orange juice so I got the barman to make you a cocktail. Do you like it? It’s called a Surfer’s Special.’
    Lara put the drink down on the wall, stood up and grabbed her rucksack.
    ‘I’m sorry, Ollie, really I am, but I can’t drink it. I’m going to have to go. I’m babysitting tonight and I promised that I’d be back by six. ’
    ‘Oh come on, Lara,’ smiled Ollie. ‘Just because you’re looking after a spoiled brat doesn’t mean you can’t have a quick drink first.’
    ‘Alfie isn’t a spoilt brat,’ snapped Lara. ‘If there are any spoiled brats round here I reckon I’m talking to one right now.’
    Ollie stared at her in astonishment. If anything, he liked this fiery Lara better than the easy-going one.
    ‘Look,’ he said, putting his hands up in mock-apology. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t think. It’s not a big deal but I’m really sorry.’
    The other drinkers had pricked up their ears by now, enjoying the commotion.
    ‘He didn’t mean it, love,’ slurred one man, who’d definitely had one drink too many.
    ‘Give him a second chance, why don’t you?’ joked another. ‘He’s a good-looking bloke. He’s worth hanging on to.’
    That was it. Lara had had enough.
    ‘I’ve got to go,’ she muttered. She slung her rucksack over her shoulder and left them all to it.
    Ollie shrugged and took a slurp of his pint. He was sure he hadn’t seen the last of Lara Rawlinson. St Grace was a small place – their paths were bound to cross again. And he’d bet his bottom dollar she’d be back for another surfing lesson.

 
    Chapter Six
     
    ‘Why can’t I go surfing with you?’ asked Alfie in his most whingey voice.
    ‘Because you’re too young.’
    Lara was starting to lose her patience. It was the umpteenth time Alfie had asked the same question and the umpteenth time she had answered it.
    ‘But why can’t I?’ repeated Alfie.
    Lara felt exasperated. The lesson with Ollie had been fun but she was still furious with him for calling Alfie a spoilt brat and trying to get her drunk. Well, maybe that was a bit hard, but he’d behaved like an idiot. She hadn’t gone near Grace’s Surf Shack since – and didn’t intend to either.
    ‘I’ve told you before. You have to be eight before they’ll teach you. And you have to be able to swim fifty metres. That’s about two lengths of your dad’s pool.’
    Alfie wasn’t in the least bit pacified.
    ‘It’s not fair. I don’t want to be little. I want to be old. Like you. And Mummy. And Daddy.’
    Lara stopped walking and turned to look at Alfie. She’d spent virtually every minute of every day with him for the past few weeks and this was the first time he’d mentioned his mother. As far as she knew, there hadn’t been a squeak out of Camille Mansfield all the time they’d been in Cornwall. Maybe the actress had been ringing Jago every night to check on their son but Jago certainly hadn’t mentioned it.
    ‘I’m not that old, Alfie,’ said Lara, keen to change the subject. ‘And anyway, there are loads of things you can do