Beware of the Boss. Leah Ashton

ponytail before walking out of the house this morning.

      ‘Luther!’ the man said again.

      The dog moved not a muscle, every line of his body focussed on Lanie’s hand.

      For the first time the man glanced in her direction.

      And it was only a glance—as brief and uninterested as Luther’s when he’d heard his owner call his name.

      ‘Are you planning on keeping his ball?’ the man asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for her response.

      Lanie blinked behind her own sunglasses. ‘Pardon me?’

      He sighed, twisting his wrist to look at his watch. ‘Can you please give Luther his ball? Soonish would be great.’

      The ball dropped from Lanie’s fingers, but the big red dog pounced as excitedly as if she’d thrown it miles away. Now he crossed the short distance to his owner, and moments later the ball was whizzing through the air and into the shallow waves. The dog followed with huge, galumphing, splashing strides.

      The man left too, without a backward glance, jogging the exact parallel distance from the lapping waves as he did every single morning.

      ‘You’re welcome,’ Lanie said to his rapidly retreating broad shoulders.

      What a jerk.

      She knelt to stuff her towel and book into her canvas tote bag, and covered her windblown hair with her hat.

      Well, at least now she knew.

      In the past weeks she’d come to recognise most of the early-morning regulars at the beach—the dedicated open water swimmers who swam at seven a.m. every day, come rain, hail or shine. The walkers—both the walking-for-exercise and the walking-because-the-beach-is-gorgeous types. The joggers, the surfers, the sunbathers—and of course the dogs.

      That man was also a regular. Unlike the others, who would greet Lanie with a familiar nod or smile each morning, this man appeared to be absorbed completely in his own world. He went for his run, his dog zipping about the shore in his wake—and then he left. That was it.

      Dark and interesting, Lanie had thought whenever she’d seen him. Private. Intense.

      Gorgeous. Obviously.

      She wouldn’t have been human not to wonder about a man like that. What did he do? What was his name? Was he married?

      Not that she’d harboured any ridiculous daydreams. Lanie was, if nothing else, pragmatic.

      But still—she’d wondered.

      And now she had the only answer she needed. So, what was he like? Rude. Definitely.

      Oh, well. No great loss—he could still add to her beautiful view each morning. A personality deficiency wouldn’t impact on that.

      With her shoes dangling from her fingers, Lanie followed a path through the green scrub-tufted dunes towards Marine Parade. Small white shells mixed amongst the sand dug into the soles of her feet. When she hit the footpath she dropped her shoes to the ground so she could step into them. The concrete was surprisingly warm, despite the lukewarm winter day.

      It was Tuesday, so the Norfolk-pine-lined street was mostly empty, not crammed with cars fighting for every available space as was typical throughout summer weekends. Across the road, multi-million-dollar homes faced the cerulean ocean, with a single café nestled amongst their architecturally designed glory. The café’s white-painted tables and chairs spilled outside, protected by brightly covered shade cloth sails and decorated with blue glass bottles filled with yellow daisies. Lanie’s house was a two-minute walk up the hill—but a wave from the grey-haired man amongst the empty tables drew her attention.

      ‘Lanie!’ he called out, pausing his energetic sweeping to prop himself against a broom. ‘Morning! Did you swim today?’

      She smiled as she shook her head. ‘Not today.’

      ‘Tomorrow?’

      They followed this script every day. ‘Maybe.’

      The man grumbled something non-distinct, but his opinion was still crystal-clear.

      ‘Tell me what you really think, Bob,’ she said dryly.

      ‘Such a waste,’ he said—just as he had yesterday—then patted one of the table tops. ‘Coffee?’

      Lanie nodded. Along with her early-morning beach visits, coffee at the eponymous Bob’s Café had become part of her daily routine.

      She slid onto the wooden chair, careful to avoid Bob’s scruffy-looking apricot poodle who slept, oblivious, at her feet. Bob didn’t wait to take her order, just shuffled inside to brew her ‘usual’: flat white, no sugar, extra shot of coffee.

      On the table was today’s newspaper, and automatically Lanie flipped it over as she waited.

      A giant colour photograph almost filled the back page: a familiar, perfect, blinding white smile; slicked back, damp blond hair and eyes identical to those she saw in the mirror each day—except Sienna’s were a sparkling azure blue, not brown.

      ‘Hazel,’ her mum always said. ‘Not brown. If you only made more of them, Lanie, they’d be your best feature.’

      ‘Another gold medal,’ Bob said, sliding a large mug and saucer onto the table.

      Lanie shrugged. ‘I know. She’s doing really well. This is a great meet for her.’

      Meet. Quite the understatement.

      Bob raised his white-flecked eyebrows.

      ‘I mean it,’ Lanie said—and she did. ‘I’m thrilled for her. Very proud of her.’

      Her sister was in London, living Lanie’s dream.

      No, Sienna’s dream. Lanie’s dream had ended months ago, at the selection trials.

      Lanie held her mug in her hands for a few moments, then raised an eyebrow at Bob, who still hovered.

      ‘It’s the relay tonight,’ Bob said.

      ‘Uh-huh.’ Lanie took a too-quick sip and the hot liquid stung the roof of her mouth. She pressed her tongue against the slight pain, dismissing it.

      Bob didn’t push, but she felt the occasional weight of his gaze as he swept around her. He was a sports nut—pure and simple. Fanatical, actually—he had to be to have recognised her that first morning she’d emerged from her mother’s house. Lanie Smith was far, far from a household name. Sienna Smith—well, that was another story. A story that could be read in the sports pages, in gushing women’s magazines, or even in lads’ mags accompanied by pictures of her in far more revealing bathers than her sister wore at swim-meets.

      It didn’t bother her. Her younger sister was suited to the limelight and she deserved it. Lanie was much happier in the shadows and perfectly satisfied with her accomplishments as a world-class relay swimmer. Besides, she certainly didn’t crave the adulation that Sienna seemed to draw like a magnet.

      Mostly satisfied. Lanie mentally corrected herself. Mostly satisfied with her accomplishments.

      Absently she flicked through the sporting pages, full of photos of winners on podiums.

      ‘Wish it was you?’

      She hadn’t realised Bob had approached her table again, and she glanced up in surprise. ‘Of course not,’ Lanie replied—snapped, really. Immediately she wished she could swallow the words. ‘I’m retired,’ she clarified, more calmly.

      He nodded and drifted politely away again—but Lanie didn’t miss the questions, and maybe concern, in his eyes.

      She stood and left a handful of coins on the table, trying to ignore how her eyes had started to tingle and squint.

      It was the sea breeze.

      She slung her bag onto her