Creeping up behind him, I take perfect aim and…WHOOSH. Serena and I douse him with a bucket of ice-cold water from head to toe.

He freezes, but I shriek with laughter. Then, he slowly turns, his eyes dark, and his lips twisted in a sinister smirk.

“Oh, you think that’s funny?”

I take one look at the pure vengeance in his eyes and do the only logical thing that comes to mind. The same thing I did the first night we met.

I run.

And Vic chases me through the crowd, around the pier, and across the sand. Until…splash!

I squeal as Vic gently tackles me into the ocean. His strong arms lock around my waist as the waves crash over us. I surface, laughing, and find him close behind me until he pulls me close against him like he never wants to let go. He grips my waist, and our bodies feel hot against each other despite the cool water. For a moment, the world fades, and the battle noise disappears. In this moment, it’s just us.

My breath catches as his fingers slide up my arms, slow and deliberate. My body hums, my heart pounds, and before I do something really reckless like kiss him in front of the entire damn town, I quickly spin out of his grip and splash him instead.

We enjoy the rest of our beach date together building castles, laughing with friends, and writing The Chef + The Teacher in the sand for everyone to see. Of course, we continue to remind ourselves it’s all for show. We try to convince ourselves, but the lines are blurring, and I don’t even know if I want to draw them anymore.

Under the shade of private, elegant white canopies is where my bougie friends have outdone themselves.

There is blackened shrimp ceviche, crab-stuffed avocado halves, and fresh fruit platters arranged like they belong in a damn art exhibit. Fancy bottled water glistens in ice buckets, and servers move about, making sure not a single flute of sparkling lemonade goes empty.

Vic raises a brow. “This is lunch? I’m impressed.” He eyes the spread as if he’s picking apart every ingredient used.

Serena smirks. “This is a Southern beach brunch, Chef. Keep up.”

We eat. We drink. And then, when the socializing dies down, Vic and I find ourselves tucked away in the private lounge area, where the waves crash softly in the distance, and our conversation flows from left to right.

“You know,” I say, swirling my drink, “your tattoos and your personality don’t match.”

Vic lifts a brow, acting offended. “Excuse me?”