The salt spray stings my face as I stare out at the waves, my heart pounding with a mixture of frustration and longing. Three months in Sanditon, and I still can't get over these waves—monsters rising from the sea, perfect and terrifying. If only someone would notice.

"Charlotte! There you are." Tom's voice breaks through my reverie. "We've got a problem. The tourism committee is pushing for a Christmas market again, and I need something bigger. Something that says 'Sanditon' isn't just for summer tourists."

I turn to face my boss, the enthusiasm I usually see dimmed by worry. "Tom, I've told you—these waves could be our salvation. Big wave surfing put Nazaré on the map. Why not Sanditon?"

"Because Nazaré didn't have Francis Lennox spreading rumors about death traps in the water," he sighs. "Look, I believe in you, but I need something concrete."

Before I can respond, a voice cuts in—deep, confident, unmistakably familiar even though I've only heard it in surfing documentaries. "Big wave surfing, huh? You realize what you're suggesting?"

I spin around. There he stands—Sidney Parker in the flesh. Dark hair wind-tousled, surfboard under one arm, those famous blue eyes regarding me with skepticism. The man who rode Jaws when he was twenty. The man whose style I studied for years.

And he's staring at me like I'm疯了.

"You must be Charlotte Heywood," he says, extending a hand. "Tom's new assistant with the... ambitious ideas."

I take his hand, feeling the calluses of years on a board, and something sparks between us—a current stronger than the undertow. "And you must be the prodigal brother. I'm surprised you're not still in Hawaii chasing perfect barrels instead of slumming it in Sanditon."

His smile sharpens. "Is that what you think this is? A holiday?"

Tom clears his throat. "Charlotte's been pushing the surfing idea since she arrived. Says our geological anomaly creates the perfect conditions."

Sidney's gaze returns to the waves, something like longing flickering across his face before he masks it with cynicism. "These aren't Hawaiian waves, Charlotte. These are cold, unpredictable... monsters."

"Exactly," I say, meeting his challenge head-on. "And monsters attract crowds."

For a long moment, we stand there, waves crashing in the distance, the tension between us thicker than the salt air. He thinks I'm naive. I think he's running from something.

And somewhere in that unspoken standoff, I feel it—the beginning of something neither of us can control. Like catching a wave that might either make you famous or break you completely.