Free Losing Faith (Surfers Way) by Jennifer Ryder

change.
    The door swings open, dragging the air from around me with it. I’m greeted by a very nice pair of muscular tanned calves and bare feet. Of course they’re a sexy pair of feet. He’s the sexy package.
    How hard did I hit my head?
    “Hi,” Quade says, amusement in his tone.
    “Hi,” I say, not daring to look up. If I do, I’ll be eye-level with his soldier.
    Quade puts down a large black dumbbell on the floor beside the door and offers me his hand. I caught him working out? Oh boy.
    “Did you just head-butt my door?”
    “Na-ah,” I grumble as I bring myself to my feet, ignoring his offer of help and instead clawing my hands up the sides of the doorframe. Act cool . “Just checking out your doormat. It’s nice.”
    “A rather close inspection, don’t you think?” he says through a hearty chuckle. “What does it say, Lace?”
    “I … ah.” I look down to check out if there is in fact a cliché “welcome” on the mat. My head swims as my eyes try to focus on a pair of black feet painted in the middle of a brown mat.
    A warm hand weaves its way around my hip, steadying me. My hands grip a pair of tight, rounded biceps for support. Strong muscles flinch beneath my touch.
    “What are you doing here?” he says, reducing the gap between us. The heat of his body radiates against mine and suddenly I’m light-headed for another reason.
    “I … ah. Oh.”
    “I think you’d better come inside. There’s a rather nice-looking egg growing on your forehead.”
    I press my hand to my head, quickly discovering the lump. An “ooh” noise escapes my mouth as the pain radiates from the point of impact.
    “You’re home alone?” I ask, peering in through the doorway for signs of his girlfriend.
    The lines across his brow deepen. “Yeah.”
    I let out a long breath and take a step back. He releases me, but he holds his hands out as if I still might need him for support to stand. “I’ll come in for a bit if that’s okay?”
    “Why wouldn’t it be okay? Get your arse in here so I can get you some ice.”
    “Okay, but I won’t stay long. I need to get to work soon.”
    He leads me through a short hallway and around to a living room, his hand resting on the small of my back guiding me, probably there as a safety net.
    The room doesn’t have a lot of furniture. There are two beige-coloured couches, a light timber coffee table, and a giant man-sized TV on the wall. Men’s fitness magazines strewn on the coffee table, giant-sized sneakers and thongs kicked off beside the lounge, and two baskets of washing are sitting in the corner. I guess it’s kinda what my place looks like. Except without all the unsolved murder stuff plastered to the walls.
    I take a seat on the closest couch and Quade walks through into another room.
    He returns a moment later with an icepack and a red tea towel which he wraps around the cold plastic. He gently places it on the wound and then picks up my hand from my lap and places it over the towel.
    “Thanks. So yeah, I need to go to work soon,” I remind him, because apparently I’m frightened of being in his house and the possibility of running into the love of his life.
    “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s just see how you feel in a bit. I can ring your Dad if you’re not up to it. Matter of fact, give me your phone now.”
    “Why? Are you gonna ring him?”
    “No, I’m putting my number in there.”
    Well in that case …
    I unlock my phone and hand it to him. He taps away, grinning as he does. A second later a phone rings in the kitchen, stopping a moment later. I’m guessing that means he has my number now.
    “How you feeling?”
    In the time it took him to toy with my phone, the pain has faded some, the cool pack soothing my ouchy head.
    “I’ll live. I have to go in tonight though. I’ve gotta get stuff in order because tomorrow I’m training a new girl.”
    “New girl, huh? I thought your dad was always about keeping it in the family.”
    “Yeah, he