5. Sam

Ihop out of the cab, sandals in hand, and make a beeline for Ron's bar. To my surprise, there's Tommy and Tilly, parked at the long counter, drinks in hand, courtesy of Ron, the heart and soul behind this place. They must have left when I did. It's pushing two in the morning, yet the place still buzzes with the tail end of our regular crowd. The soft rock humming through the speakers wraps around me like a familiar blanket. After tonight's escapades, this place, with all its imperfections, really does feel like home.

Tommy catches sight of me first, straightening up with that tell-tale mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the walk of shame!" he announces, lifting his drink high. The bar erupts in a chorus of whoops and cheers.

My cheeks heat up with a blush as I take a seat at the bar, suddenly longing for the privacy of a shower to scrub away the night's evidence. Yet, I'm not ready to spill the details of my night, especially not the parts that would really get their imaginations running wild.

"Oh my, look at you, all satisfied. That guy was a total hunk! I'm almost jealous; he would have totally wrecked me," Tilly teases, never one to mince words.

I can't help but playfully bump her shoulder. "Stop that!" I chide, trying to keep the conversation light.

Tommy, on the other hand, stays silent, nursing his beer with a look that's a mix of contemplation and annoyance. I can tell he's purposely avoiding making eye contact with Tilly, and it dawns on me that their earlier dance might not have been the change in their friendship as I'd hoped.

"You really hit the tourist jackpot this time. He looked loaded," Tilly continues, ever the observer.

Shaking my head, I correct her. "Not a tourist. He's local and definitely not rolling in dough."

Their simultaneous "Local?" isn"t a surprise. It is, after all, a clear deviation from my usual cautious approach. "I gave him a fake name," I confess, trying to downplay the night's recklessness.

"You didn't!" Tilly's laughter fills the space between us.

"Just call me Stacy," I retort with a smirk, feeling a mix of exhilaration and relief at sharing a snippet of my night. They know I've been cautious, maybe even a bit closed off when it comes to men after everything that went down with my ex, but Greg... Greg made me feel alive, desired, and utterly content in a way I hadn't felt in years.

This connection, this night with Greg, was something else—intense, freeing, and honestly, a little wild. I'd never been so uninhibited, so willingly lost in the moment. Greg had a way of making me feel respected and wanted, all while pushing the boundaries of my desire in the best possible way.

"Well, Stacy," Tilly jokes, pulling me back to the present, "I'm glad your night turned out so well. Should we make this a weekly adventure?"

But I'm already shaking my head, still processing the whirlwind of emotions and sensations that defined my night. "No thanks. It was... an eventful evening, to say the least. I think I'm set for a long time."

Tilly's eyebrow arches, her curiosity piqued, but before she can probe further, Ron slides a beer my way. "Toasting laziness?" he asks, his words clipped. "Glad to see I've still got the magic touch with hiring slackers." His gaze bores into the three of us, but I'm not about to give in tonight. It's been too perfect.

Raising my glass, I stand, ready to call it a night on my own terms. "I'm off tonight, Ron. Let Tommy and Tilly handle closing." Their protests are cut short as Ron tosses a towel Tilly's way, sealing the deal. I'm already halfway across the bar, heading toward the stairs up to our apartment.

"Where do you think you're going, hussy?" Tilly asks.

"Showering and to bed, Til. You're on your own."

Tilly is laughing as I reach the first step. "Oh, you are dirty! Damn, Sammy." I'm hustling up the stairs now, not wanting her to see the smile that lets her know she is right.

***

Two weeks later, I'm battling math over the ordering form again, trying to make sure we have enough soda for the weekend rush, when the bell over the surf shop door rings.

"I'll be right there!" I call out, already feeling stretched thin. Tilly's out with a group from Japan, and Tommy's competing in Florida, leaving me to juggle everything. It's days like today where I wish I had a secret clone or five.

"Hello?" a voice drifts in, oddly familiar.

"Yep, on my way!" My patience for customers is nonexistent today. Everyone so far has been demanding and unapologetic, my least favorite combination. It's not my fault Ron doesn't hire more help. I decide the form will have to wait as I rush from the bar area to the surf shop. Sliding behind the counter, I shove a pencil in my mouth to tie my hair back.

Looking up, the pencil drops from my mouth. My heart stops. It's Greg, standing right there in my surf shop, looking even more stunning in the daylight. His frame perfectly fills out a dark t-shirt, his hair slicked back, revealing more sun-kissed tips than I remembered. He looks like a goddamn beach angel sent from heaven to tempt me into hundred foot waves without a board and yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds. My chest tightens, memories of our night together flooding back, making it hard to breathe.

"Uh, hi," he greets me, breaking the silence.

"What're you doing here?" I blurt out, sounding more like an accusation than a question.

"I'm here for a lesson." I flip through the appointment book to today's date, and there it is: ‘Greg S.' Noon. Damn it.

"Sorry, I had no idea you worked here. Fake-Stacy, right?" His gaze sweeps over me, reigniting the blush that had just started to fade. Note to self: next time I'm playing mysterious sexy dance lady, invent a better name.

I lift my lanyard. "It's Samantha, but I go by Sam," I correct him, trying to keep my cool as I head towards the surfboard rack. "Got swim trunks?"

"Yep, and a rash guard," he calls after me.

"Changing room is down the hall," I manage, avoiding his gaze. Imagining him changing sends a rush of heat through me, memories of our night together vivid in my mind. I curse myself for letting my thoughts wander.

He returns in black swim trunks, and a tight rash guard and my eyes scan him from head to toe. The sight of his defined abs and broad shoulders under the tight fabric sends my mind racing, and the outline of his cock through the shorts has me biting my lip to stifle a reaction. I spin around to hide my flushed face but hear his chuckle. He saw. He definitely saw.

"Sam?" His voice pulls me back, and I brace myself to face him again. When I turn around, his smile has this natural charm that sends my heart racing.

"Sorry, I think I need a snack," I blurt out. Though it most definitely isn't a hunger that a burger or taco could solve.

"We can grab a bite first?" he offers, and my heart skips a beat. The idea sends a mix of excitement and anxiety through me. But getting close to anyone is a bad idea. Especially men I know nothing about.

"Erm, I'll be okay," I say, though my voice betrays my nervousness.

"You don't seem okay. Looks like you've seen a ghost," he teases, his laugh sending ripples through his tight shirt, highlighting his muscles. It might be my imagination, but it almost seems like he's flexing on purpose.

I sigh, my face warming at the sound coming from my own lips. "I just wasn't expecting you, that's all."

He steps closer, stopping just a foot away. He's so near, his presence enveloping me. I can smell him – that distinct blend of salt and ocean and a subtle musk that's unmistakably Greg. It's overwhelming, and for a moment, I want nothing more than to lose myself in his scent, in the memory of our night.

"Don't be sorry. I'm not," he says, and just like that, my heart skips a beat. His finger traces a line down my arm, sending shivers through me. "But I can leave if I'm making you uncomfortable, Sam." The way my name rolls off his tongue is like a caress all on its own, and I close my eyes, savoring the sound.

Spending a half hour with him without tearing off that tight swimsuit he's wearing feels like an impossible task. Like trying to read the fine print on a mortgage contract during a rock concert at the edge of a hurricane. And, if I'm brutally honest with myself, it's not just physical attraction that's pulling me towards him. The way he respected my boundaries and let me take the lead was refreshing and disarming. I'm usually on edge, ready to fend off unwanted advances, but with Greg, I felt safe and at ease.

It's ludicrous, but the connection I feel with him terrifies me. I can't afford to get close to anyone, can't even share my real name. "So, there's a little hiccup," I finally manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel.

"What's that?" he asks, his expression turning concerned.

"Our surf instructors are both out today," I admit, even though we both know I'm more than capable of teaching him.

"You're not a surf instructor?"

"Erm, not yours, no."

His shoulders droop and there's a small shift in his grin. But as quick as the look of disappointment came, it's gone again. In its place is a look of pure terror, his eyes focused right over my shoulder.

"Oh shit!" he yells out and runs around the surf shack counter to duck down. I turn to see why his face has drained of every red blood cell but see nothing. At his reaction, I was half expecting an incoming nuclear missile.

My brow furrows as I scowl and lean over the counter stocked with wax and sunscreen. "Dude, you can't be back there," I say.

He looks up and his head makes a figure eight as if tracking invisible assailants in the air. I'm so fucking confused, he might as well be spewing in tongues while a priest attempts an exorcism.

"The hell is wrong with you?" I ask right as he jumps to his feet and sprints behind me. Once there, his fingers dig into my shoulder.

"A bee!" he screams, like a twelve-year-old.

I look around the shop, seeing not even a fly. "Oh, okay. Um, are you allergic or something?" I ask.

He scoffs and shifts my entire body to the left, apparently okay with using it as a shield from the evils of nature. "Yeah, I'm fucking allergic. Everyone is. It's a fucking bee!" he squeals.

I can't help it I laugh. "Okay, okay. Gimme a second. Where is it?" He juts out a single finger like an accuser at a political hanging. "There!"

The tiny yellow bug has just landed on the surf counter. Prying his fingers off, I rush over to the bar and grab a clean glass. Nothing for the best for our tiny pollinating friends. Within seconds, I have it trapped and release it outside.

"There you go, little wingman," I say as he flies away.

From inside the shack, Greg asks, "Is it gone?"

Holding in my laughter, I nod. "Coast is clear."

When I walk back inside, my arms are crossed. His chin dips down when he sees what must be pure amusement splashed across my face.

"Now, I know that was—"

"Fucking priceless," I finish for him, chuckling.

"Yes, okay. Just put me out of my misery I guess." He clutches at the back of his neck and offers me an embarrassed smile. The man certainly knows how to work his best feature. That tiny dimple when his cheeks rise? Holy shit, it's a panty melter. Pure and simple. The entire look is so endearing that I honest to God, feel my knees go weak. What the hell is it about vulnerable men?

He shifts on his feet before letting out a breath. "Look, I swear I had no idea you worked here. Can we please just go out? I really want to surf with you, Sam. Bee's be damned." Hearing my name on his lips again gives me that final nudge. Tilly's been out all morning, and I know she'll be in a foul mood if she gets back to another lesson. And deep down, I kind of—okay, really—enjoyed his freak out. Besides, being scared of a man that's terrified of bee's would be ridiculous.

"Fine." The smile on his face stretches, flashing that adorable dimple again.

As my cheeks fill with warmth, I cover my own smile with a hand before clearing my throat. "Just need to change and grab our stuff."

"Be my guest," he says.

My swimsuit is already on under my clothes, but I still need a rash guard to protect my skin and some wax for the board. Without thinking too much about it, I pull off my tank top right there in front of him, conscious of keeping my stomach tight. Maybe it's not entirely fair to tease him like this, but I can't deny the thrill I get from his gaze roaming over me, hungry for every inch of my exposed skin.

As I step out of my cutoffs and stand back up, I catch that exact look I was hoping for in his eyes. With a mischievous smile, I grab a rash guard and quickly throw it on.

I grab my board, an eight-foot fiberglass beauty that I've kept in pristine condition, from the back of the rack. Without looking directly at him, I jerk my head towards Big Blue. "Grab that," I say, a bit more sharply than I intend. I'm afraid I'll do something foolish if I pause, even for a moment.

There's this undeniable pull towards Greg, an unholy force that seems to draw me in. He's a planet with his own insane masculine gravitational pull and here I am, trying not to crash into him like a clumsy meteor with commitment issues. And honestly, the fact that he's here, in my shop, feels like more than a coincidence. He insisted he hadn't been looking for me specifically, and for some reason, I believe him. Yet, somehow, it feels like fate intervened, throwing us together again.

I almost laugh at the thought. Fate? Since when have I started believing in that bullshit?