I didn't know what to do, or even think, when the notorious Gregory Simons came up to Wavelength one afternoon, stood his surf board against the palm tree nearby and leaned across the counter, saying, in that warm, husky voice of his:

"Well, well, looks like this is the classic bad-boy good-girl love story, it's no wonder there's so much sexual tension between us."

If this were a cheesy love story, I would've fallen head over heels in love with him there and then. But it wasn't, so I simply raised a finger.

"One sec," I told him, before turning to my fifteen-year old brother.

Ean was frowning at the Fifa game on his tablet, busy beating the crap out of whatever team he was playing against (he generally picked crap teams so he could completely obliterate them and then feel good about his measly accomplishment). There was a can of coke in front of him, half-drunk, beads of water condensing on the bright red surface.

"Ean, hand me your soda, will you?"

Without glancing up, Ean pushed his coke over to me. Seizing the can, I raised it to my lips and took a huge gulp.

Then I shifted away from Greg, leaned over the counter so that I was facing the sand below and happily sprayed the coke out of my mouth, as a dramatic reaction to his ridiculous statement.

What else could you do when a self-proclaimed bad boy propositioned you like this?

Greg's reaction was instantaneous; he stepped back quickly as if I were an open flame and he was about to catch on fire. And then he stared at me, utterly appalled. "What the hell, Darcy!"

"Sorry," I said, but I hardly sounded contrite; my lips were stretched into a wide grin, amused giggles spilling from my lips every few seconds. "I've always wanted to do that."

He frowned. "That bad, huh?"

"Bad's an understatement, sweetheart," I informed him, gravely, because one generally needed to be cruel to be kind. "That's one of the worst pick-up lines I've ever heard in my life."

And it was true. God forbid he actually used it on any girl he met. I didn't know exactly whom he used it on, of course, since Greg and I went to different schools.

But trust me, if I did go to his school, I'd be warning every poor potential victim of his, telling them to stay at least ten feet away from him.

Since I couldn't, I could only act as Greg's test-subject. And as his test-subject, I had to listen to every new pick-up line he came up with.

Sometimes he texted them to me, and it was all I could do not to bang my head against the wall at how ridiculously funny he was being. It was fortunate that he wasn't with me at those times, because I would've had no qualms elbowing him in the gut.

But now it was summer. And Greg and his group of friends visited the beach almost everyday. And I had the pleasure (or, rather, displeasure) of seeing him everyday.

Especially since my family owned Wavelength, the modest little shack at the beach, which in summer, when the weather was all sunny and lovely and warm, was a thriving business.

"Oh, come on," Greg argued, with a frown, "Don't tell me that didn't even turn you on a little bit."

"It didn't," I returned flatly, "If I had a penis - which I don't - and heard you say that, I wouldn't be having a half-boner. Not even a twitch, really."

"You're an ingrate, Darcy Evers. God knows how much time and pick-up lines I spend on you."

He did. And I didn't know how it began, honestly. Greg had been frequenting this beach every summer and I'd just had the misfortune to be there. I suppose I must've been convenient for him.

Plus, the time and pick-up lines he spent on me was just so he could pick up other girls.

So I simply smiled serenely and said, "Let's look at it this way. You need me to save you from screwing up your love life. And I need you to keep patronising Wavelength. It's a fair deal. Would you like more Dr Pepper?"

Greg was such a frequent patron of Wavelength that I knew him better than the back of my hand. And it came as no surprise to me when he nodded.

"Just five bottles please."

Getting up from my seat, I headed to the fridge at the back. It took me awhile to gather the bottles in my arms, wincing when the cold drinks chilled me to the bone. "You mean seven," I called, slyly adding two more to the pile. "Callum practically inhales Dr Pepper."

"Fine, seven then," he grumbled, staring at the bottles glumly as I shoved them into the bag, before brightening up again as he thought of something else altogether, "Hey, Darcy, speaking of girls - "

"We weren't speaking about girls."

" - you see that girl over there? Near the huge umbrellas?" he turned, leaning his back against the counter and pointed in the direction where people were sun-tanning on the beach. "The one in the hot pink bikini."

My eyes followed his finger, and after a moment, I realised who he was referring to. It wasn't too difficult to spot the girl. Her black hair was glossy and fell past her back in lovely waves, her pale skin striking among the other tanned beach-goers.

And then, of course, there was her bikini, which was so bright and eye-catching it could probably be spotted from a mile away.

I knew Greg was waiting for my evaluation, as he often did after picking out potential candidates for him to show some - how could I put this politely - well, summer lovin'.

"She's an eleven. Tips the damn chart. Ten, at the very least," I added, as an afterthought. "I say go for it. Just don't use any pick-up lines, I beg of you."

The words were already out of my mouth before I realised how much of a boy I sounded. Honestly. No wonder Greg and his friends felt so comfortable with me. Mom and Dad were right. I needed to get back in touch with my feminine side, and pronto.

Greg grinned at my answer and grabbed the bag from me, before forking over a wad of cash. I knew without counting that there was a good two-dollar tip, at the very least, so I happily took it from him and tucked it under one of the straps of my tank top.

"Wish me luck," he said, as he grabbed his surfboard, hoisting it under his arm with ease.

With an amused grin, I saluted him. "Godspeed, my friend."

He left, and I sidled over to Ean, who had already put his tablet down so he could serve another customer. Once he'd passed a hotdog to the guy who'd looked like he'd already consumed one too many hotdogs for his own good, he turned to me.

I grabbed the wad of cash tucked under the strap of my tank top and pulled aside two one-dollar bills. It was an agreement our parents had made with us. So long as the bill for one purchase amounted to more than five dollars, Ean and I could have that as tips, apart from the basic wage they paid us.

Frankly, neither of us cared much. Working at Wavelength was something we'd done for years, and it was a lot better than actually having to head out to find a job and go for interviews and what-not.

Waving one of the dollar bills at him, I said chirpily, "One for me and one for you."

"Thanks," he grabbed it and tucked it under his cap.

I knew he had many more dollar bills under there, and he was probably going to go home and lift up his cap, letting the dollar bills flutter to the floor like leaves falling from a tree. He claimed it made him feel like he was showering in money.

Well, whatever floated his boat.

Leaving him up to his antics, I headed for the cash register so I could put the rest of the money in. Except I couldn't, because when it came to all things technological and machine-involved, I was just hopeless.

Teaching me how to use my cell was an almost impossible task that had taken my brother days to do. And don't even get me started on my laptop and the sea of viruses that seemed hell bent on attacking it.

"Ean!" I hollered, when I'd pressed the same button for the fifth time and couldn't get the cash register to open. "Could you - " I trailed off, helplessly, motioning him over. I was much better off serving customers than handling the money.

We swapped places. He obligingly took over the cash register from me, and after pushing several buttons, the lower slot soon opened with a click. As I served the customers in line, I watched him from my peripheral vision and frowned. I had no idea how he could work the cash register so effortlessly.

Magic, probably.

Granted, I wasn't completely hopeless when it came to these sort of things. It was just a matter of whether I wanted to learn, and when it came to the cash register, I simply couldn't be bothered.

But these thoughts of cash registers and my ineptitude with technology were shoved firmly from my mind when I realised, with a start, how long the queue had gotten. There were about seven people in line now, and if Ean and I didn't hurry up, it was probably going to eat into our lunchtime.

Which, you know, was a pretty horrifying thought.

The thought of that was enough to make me marginally speed up. Clearly, Ean thought the same thing, because he was soon by my side, gesturing some of the people over so they were now in two lines.

We had served about fifteen people when the queue began to dwindle. So after Ean had served the last customer in his queue, I waved him off.

"Go ahead. I'll eat later," I said, since I knew that he was looking forward to lunch far more than I was. Ean was the average teenage boy, and if I was starving, he must've been ravenous.

Plus, there needed to be someone at the shack always. Dad's orders. We hadn't much security here, so someone needed to keep a lookout in case of theft.

"I'll bring you back your lunch," he promised, shooting me a grateful smile. Then he grabbed his tablet and headed out of the shack.

I finished serving the last three people in my queue, before propping myself back up on the stool, glad to see that there was a lull for the time being. It needed to stay like this until Ean came back, because it was difficult for one person to handle the crowd sometimes. Particularly during the dinner rush, when my parents' homemade ravioli was basically the talk of this town.

But it was only half-past twelve then, the afternoon sun at its very peak, slowly baking the beach in a warm, cheerful glow. The waves practically sparkled gleamed with the reflection of the sun, the brightness making it difficult to look out at the wave-front without flinching in the process.

There was a sudden scuffle coming from the back and I turned, expecting to see Ean with my lunch. But it wasn't. It wasn't even my Mom or my Dad, it wasn't anyone related to me whatsoever.

It was a boy who looked somewhere around my age but that wasn't what caught my eye. What first caught my eye was the fact that he wasn't wearing anything.

Nothing but an itsy bitsy teeny weeny pair of yellow polka-dotted shorts.