Surfboards and Sandwiches

Chapter Three

EVANGELINE'S POV

I'm humming to one of my favorite songs. 'Angels on the Moon' by Thriving Ivory. I swirl my brush over the light wood as I reach the chorus. I can't help but sing aloud.

"Don't tell me if I'm dying, cause I don't wanna know, if I can't see the sun, maybe I should go. And don't wake me cause I'm dreaming of angels on the mo—"

I'm cut off by the bells at the front of the shop where I work. It's a cozy place. Here we make and sell surfboards, food, and clothes. Well, we don't make the clothing, but you know what I mean. We only ever have two employees working at once, and no more than four total. I normally work with Spence. He shapes the boards, and I paint them.

I was actually hired for my artwork. I'm super into painting, and had one of my best on display one day when Spence was there. It was at an art convention for young artists. I guess my landscape of the pier on the north shore caught his eye. He called our supervisor, and I was hired then and there.

At first, I was kind of skeptical, because who is hired without an interview, right? But I took the offer. It sounded fun. Paint stuff while I'm not ringing up a customer? And I get commission on the boards? Sign me up.

It turned out to be everything I expected it would be. Waves is located right on the beach. Like, right on the beach. The water is usually crystal clear and pretty warm, so we get a lot of customers.

Speaking of, one just came in. I can tell from the tinkling bells by the door. "Hello?" A voice calls out uncertainly. Crap. I forgot that Spence quit, so he's not here. He's moving to Greece. Yeah, Greece.

I can't see who the customer is, since I'm painting in the back room. "Just give me two minutes," I call out. "If I stop now, this board is ruined." It's true. I took a request from a customer, and she wants a drip effect, which I'm currently halfway through. I can't let it dry and then continue later. The dry paint would be uneven.

As I paint the last stroke, I lean back onto the counter and wipe the sweat off of my forehead. Did I mention that Waves isn't air-conditioned? Well, it isn't.

Wiping the remaining paint off of my brush into my painting jeans, I walk out to the store counter. My customer isn't at it, as I expected him to be, but he's examining the surfboards along the wall.

From what I can see of him, he's around my age, maybe a bit older. His jeans hang low around his hips, not sagging, exactly, but just low enough to suggest he's a bit full of himself. His hands are tucked into the back pockets, showing off his toned arms. His skin is tan, but it's natural, like he just spends a lot of time in the sun.

I cringe when he reaches out to rest the fingertips of one hand on one of the boards. I know it seems ironic, but I don't really like having my artwork studied like that. Even on a surfboard.

I breathe a sigh of relief when he removes his hand to readjust the cap that's backwards on his head. Cute dark-colored curls poke out from around the edge of a Paramore cap. I smile to myself. Now that's some good music.

"Um, can I help you?" I ask. The guy looks over his shoulder at me, and I gasp. "Jack?"

He turns all the way around, so he's facing me, and it's definitely him. I only saw him for about an hour a week ago, but I wouldn't forget that face. High cheekbones, strong jawline, long, curled lashes, and entrancing green eyes.

"Evangeline?" His jaw is slack, like he's not really sure if it's me or not. "You work here?"

"Yep." I feel a small blush creeping up my neck. "What are you doing here?"