A cool breeze drifts off the water, tickling Emma's nose as she brushes a wayward strand of hair from her face. It's early morning on the Pacific Ocean, and if she weren't here on business, she might find the whole experience utterly relaxing.
"There they are." David hands her the binoculars. Without pointing, he nods his head subtly in the direction of a group of surfers, currently floating above the water on their boards, waiting for the next break. She and her partner are standing high above them at the lookout on the point, and from this distance their wetsuits make them look like sleek black seals. She isn't sure how she'll be able to distinguish them from every other group of identically-clad surfers out this morning.
Emma lifts the binoculars to her eyes, squinting against the harsh light reflecting off the water. As her pupils adjust, she moves her head, scanning the rolling blue-green waves capped with foam.
"Two o'clock," David murmurs, and she swings her head in the right direction. There. Four men grouped together, obviously part of a crew, since they didn't seem to mind the close competition for waves.
One white blonde - Whale - check. Two brunettes - Jefferson and Locksley - check. And the mark she'd be approaching, his hair nearly black, saturated with water. Jones.
Lowering the binoculars, she lets out a sigh. "'K. It's time to find out if these guys are really a ruthless band of thieves or not. And if Jones really has a thing for leggy blondes, like it says on his profile."
She gives David a mischievous smirk, raising her eyebrows, and he smiles tersely in response.
"Emma," he sighs. "Take this seriously, OK? I don't want to see you get hurt." Oh boy, here comes the overprotective big brother speech.
"Oh yeah? Like I hurt you the last time we sparred together? You whined like a girl." She shoves his shoulder, barely managing to move his solid mass, her fingers taking note of the rough feel of his wool jacket as she presses into him hard. David has a killer physique, and she might even find him attractive if he wasn't so much like family to her. His jacket both gives him the appearance of a slick businessman and the advantage of hiding his gun holsters from view.
Chuckling, he shakes his head. "I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. And you've got one hell of a round kick." He stops, regarding her seriously. "Just promise me you won't let yourself get taken in. You haven't done that much undercover work. It...well, it's easy to let yourself believe it's all real, that you really are the person you're pretending to be. I hate to say this, but just keep your walls up, OK?"
Emma considers him, both annoyed and touched by his brotherly concern. "You don't need to tell me to keep my walls up, Dave. It's like my auto-defense system," she says sardonically, giving him a resigned smile. David smirks at her in return, his expression that of amused contemplation.
"Way up, then, Emma. No cracks." She knew it must be killing David not to be able to go down there with her, but they had all agreed it wouldn't fit with the scenario they had in mind.
"No cracks," she echoes, giving him a cheeky salute.
They both turn, sauntering back up the path towards the quaint town of La Jolla, with its plethora of swanky restaurants and art galleries, a lavish enclave on the San Diego coastline. Normally bustling with tourists, it's quiet this early on a Monday morning, and she takes it all in, breathing in the ocean air deeply. She almost wishes she had time to grab a coffee and stroll the boulevard, but she shakes those lazy thoughts from her mind just as soon as they surface. She has a job to do, summertime at the beach or not.
A light breeze caresses her bare arms and she shivers, though if it's caused by the chill in the air or her nerves she can't be sure. It isn't her first time pretending to be someone she isn't, but the stakes have never been this high before. They need someone believable and well, attractive, to draw these guys in. When Regina found out she had some surfing experience, that sealed the deal. But her boss had made it emphatically clear that she was taking a chance on Emma and that she had better not screw it up. She didn't have any intention of doing so.
This was the break in her career she'd been waiting for. A chance to be seen as something more than just a former orphan and run-of-the-mill cop. She may be wet behind the ears by FBI standards, but life experience had earned her a few badges of honor. Now was the time to prove to herself and to her peers that the little lost girl could be a hero.
After another stern warning from David, he and Emma part ways, and she drives her car down to the beach parking lot at La Jolla Shores. There aren't a lot of cars this early in the morning, aside from the joggers and surfers, and Emma easily finds a spot in the first row, facing the sand.
Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, she adjusts her top so the round neck rests at just the right spot on her cleavage. Pressing her lips together to spread her pink lipgloss again, she nods slightly to herself, satisfied with her appearance. He's never gonna know what hit him, she thinks to herself smugly. Fluffing her hair, which is styled in long beachy waves, she exits her car.
As she closes the yellow door of her mustang convertible, she is struck with a visceral memory of her old yellow VW bug - the one she and Neal had shared. The memory brings a faint smile to her lips, but also serves to remind her of all the little things in her past that she needs to keep tamped down. If the FBI ever found out about her early life as a thief she might be suspended - or even worse - fired. All of these secrets she has to keep close to her vest, weighing her down, but sometimes the truth is best left untold.
Making her way onto the sand, she stops to bend down and pick up her flip flops since they are only serving to flick sand all over the back of her calves. Besides, there is nothing like walking barefoot in the sand, and she closes her eyes for a moment, savoring the feel. A wave crashes against the beach like soft thunder, and she smiles to herself. Moving cross-country was the best decision she ever made.
Aside from leaving her past behind her, it also meant consistently warmer temperatures, a plethora of killer sunsets, and the added bonus of super-friendly people everywhere she went. Apparently there was something about being near the ocean all the time that made people happy or something. She wasn't about to start complaining.
Tucking her hands in the back pockets of her cutoff jean shorts, she wanders down the beach as inconspicuously as possible, all the while making her way towards the group of surfers. She has already seen their faces in the case files, memorizing their features, and she feels like she has a pretty good grip on the situation. But there is something ominous hanging heavy in the air this morning, like her entire future is about to be turned upside down.
The feeling heightens as she draws closer to the four men, and she kicks at the sand to shake it off. Substantial suspicion is not the same thing as absolute proof. For all she knows at this point, they really are just a group of feel-good boys out for a morning surf. They certainly don't look like vile criminals, willing to hose down anyone in their path.
She catches sight of them out of the corner of her eye, and she slows, pretending to look at her cell phone. Scanning the beach, she takes note of a pile of belongings grouped together. Four beach towels, a few bags and some pairs of men's shoes are tossed about, likely belonging to her targets.
Making her way towards them, she plops herself down on one of the towels, much like Goldilocks would. It's a navy blue towel with a white anchor, spread out carefully on the sand. If the surveillance reports were correct, Jones should break away from the group first, giving her a few minutes alone with him. She hopes it will be enough time to enact her plan.
Emma sends a quick text message to Dave while she waits. Operation Barracuda is a go, she types, smirking to herself. Sometimes the FBI is stealthy and slick, and sometimes they can be downright ridiculous. Reel him in, David texts back.
And be careful, comes the second text. Emma rolls her eyes.
Right at 8 a.m., like clockwork, she sees Jones coming in on a wave, and she watches as he expertly maneuvers his board, only jumping off when he reaches knee deep water. Tossing her phone on the towel next to her, she leans back on her wrists, stretching her long legs out and pretending to be a relaxed sun-worshipper. She watches, mesmerized, as he shakes water from his hair before raking a hand through the oily, dark tresses. Her heart speeds up as he stalks towards her, his surfboard tucked under his arm and his muscles shifting under his tight black wetsuit as he walks. Fuck. It's like watching some sort of ad for Blue by Polo Ralph Lauren come to life. Who the hell was this guy?
Shutting her mouth quickly after she realizes it had fallen open in her stupor, she steels herself for the encounter, glad that her sunglasses are hiding what must be wide eyes from his view. Tossing her head back, she juts her chest forward to display her rack as attractively as possible. She needs him to take the bait.
"Excuse me, lass, but I'm afraid you're sitting on my towel," he says in a lilting British accent, dripping water in front of her as he raises a rather attractive dark brow at her.
Emma lifts her sunglasses from her eyes, feigning surprise. "Oh, is it? I'm sooo sorry. I didn't bring my own, and I kinda saw yours just sitting here unused, and, well-" She jumps up, wiping sand from her ass as she takes him in. Un-fucking-believable. The FBI surveillance photos had been mostly taken from far away; nothing prepared her for what Killian Jones looks like up close, in person, and wet. Long, thick eyelashes beaded with water frame eyes that are tranquil and blue, contrasting sharply with the darkness of his hair. Luscious, soft pink lips are surrounded by just the right amount of perma-scruff, and she has to force herself to meet his eyes, temporarily distracted as she is by the beauty of his sculpted features. Looks like I won't be needing to force the attraction, she thinks, the air thick with tension.
Giving her a knowing smile, he drops his board and bends down to pick up his towel now that she's vacated it, and she smiles up at him as he rubs behind his neck with it. He's taller than she thought he would be, and she can already imagine what his broad shoulders would feel like beneath her fingertips as she reaches up on her tippy-toes to kiss him. Focus, Emma.
"It's alright, lass, I've been known to pirate an unattended item now and then myself," he answers with a smile, and Emma has to keep herself from chuckling. I'll bet you have.
"So, you're British, I take it? How long have you been surfing? That doesn't seem like something people do over there." She puts her hands in her back pockets again, twisting her shoulders back and forth slightly.
Killian smiles, ducking his head at the apparent interest in his life story as he rubs the towel over his head and then lets it rest around his shoulders. He scratches behind his ear, and Emma almost decides right then and there that the only thing this man is guilty of is being criminally adorable.
"Aye, the surfing conditions in England are not quite as pleasant as they are here. But the sea has always been a part of me, so I took to it fairly quickly," he says, scratching behind his ear again (nervous tick, noted) as he thinks about his answer. "I'd wager it's been maybe five years now that I've been surfing, though admittedly not very well for the first year or two!"
Emma smiles. Time to dive right in. "Hey, well, I'm sort of new to the area myself and I've been looking for someone who might be able to give me surfing lessons. Any chance you might be interested?" She bites her lower lip, looking up at him through her lashes as she continues to arch her back, pushing her cleavage forward.
Not surprisingly, his eyes drift downward, and when he lifts them to her eyes again, it's with a smug smirk firmly fixed in place. Raising his eyebrow, he regards her thoroughly. "Hmm...I could probably teach you a thing or two…" Emma swears his voice is suddenly laced with sex, and the innuendo serves to draw a livewire up her spine. If only she were here for a hookup.
"I could pay you!" she blurts out. "I wouldn't expect you to spend your time with me for free or anything," she says, shrugging her shoulders.
"Ah," he says, his brow furrowing, and she can tell he's trying to figure her out. "Spending time with you -" He's suddenly right in front of her, invading her space. "- would be my pleasure, lass. What did you say your name was again?" He holds his hand out to her.
"Emma. Emma Swan," she answers, placing her hand in his. His touch is surprisingly warm for having just come out of the water, and she gasps slightly as he lifts her hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss over her knuckles.
When he pulls back, she sees the devil in his eyes, and she gulps. "Killian Jones, at your service," he says with an indulgent smile. For a fleeting moment it would seem their thoughts are in perfect unison: Oh, this is gonna be fun.