“Dude, come on,” I say with a laugh.
“What? It was a good sandwich,” he defends. “I don’t know. There haven’t been a lot of standout moments, honestly. I finished high school, moved to New York, got a job at the gym, and have basically just been existing since then. Truly, the best thing that’s happened to me in the past fifteen years was spotting you on the ferry…or maybe it was working up the balls to kiss you last night.”
My stomach jolts and my heart flails. I reflexively tighten my fingers against his. Is he for real? I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to see if there’s any hint of teasing in his expression, but find none.
“Those were my best things too,” I admit.
“Oh, come on. You have your dream job. You travel the world. I’m sure you’ve had a lot of amazing moments.”
“I have.” I’m not going to deny that. My love life has been a sad joke, but the rest of my life since high school has been pretty fucking cool. “But running into you again is still the best.”
A sweet smile that I haven’t seen beforespreads over his lips. It’s different from his cocky smile or his teasing smile, it’s almost too pure to be on the face of a big bear of a man like Flynn, but it’s also unbearably perfect.
“Hey, look at that,” he says, something catching his attention. He jerks his chin toward someone in the distance who seems to be up on a ladder painting a sign. As we get closer, it looks like it’s our waiter from last night, Hennessy. He’s dressed in beachwear, a large paintbrush in one hand and a can of paint hanging from the ladder. He’s touching up a hand-painted sign that readsFuck Easy.
“Fuck easy?” I read aloud as we walk past. “What do you think that means?”
“Maybe it’s inspirational like don’t take the easy way out?” Flynn guesses.
“Or maybe it’s like fuck easily, be a slut,” I suggest, and he laughs.
“Definitely possible.”
When we reach the snorkeling cove, the beach is surprisingly quiet. I guess most people don’t come to Hand Job Island to look at sea creatures. We’re greeted by the same man I saw on the pier yesterday taunting Boston. He’s wearing a wetsuit, the top unzipped and hanging loose around his waist. His long brown hair is slicked back and wet, a relaxed smile on his lips as he offers us each a hand to shake.
“Welcome to Turtle Fuck Cove. I’m Trick. What can I do for you?”
Flynn and I share a look. There are so many things to unpack about that sentence, I’m not sure where to start.
“We wanted to snorkel,” Flynn says.
“In that case, you came to the right place. If you step right this way, I’ll get you set up with some equipment and a list of rules and shit.” He gestures toward the brightly painted stand a few feet away. A golf cart parked next to it is decorated with Christmas decor of all things—evergreen garlands, ornaments, a few Santa figurines haphazardly attached. There’s even a large, plastic Rudolph on the roof.
We follow him over to the booth, and he gets to work piling goggles, snorkels, and flippers onto the counter before launching into a rundown of instructions and rules we need to follow. I can’t believeyou can’t take any fish with youis actually a rule.
Halfway through the long spiel, he looks up, and his entire expression changes. It goes from relaxed and friendly to calculating. He turns a flirtatious smile on me, leaning forward to bring us closer.
“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful your lips are?”
“What?” I blink in confusion, and Flynn growls, putting an arm around me.
“Trick,” a voice shouts from behind me. I turn to see Boston pulling up on an equally ridiculously decorated golf cart. His is adorned with plastic flamingos, several lawn flamingos bobbing on the roof from the impact of the quick stop. He hops out of the vehicle and strides across the beach with a thunderous expression on his face. “Just when I think you can’t stoop any fucking lower.”
“Boston, sweetheart, I’m with customers,” he says in a sweet, taunting sort of voice, which only seems to make the other man angrier. He bares his teeth, clenching his jaw and snorting through his nose like a bull. It’s terrifying and a little hot at the same time. I lean a little closer to Flynn, pretty sure I don’t want to be in the middle of a fistfight between these two.
“Right,” he scoffs, turning his attention to Flynn. “Watch your man. This prick will fuck anything that isn’t nailed down just for the sport of it.”
“Nailed down can help, actually. Doesn’t move as much when I really get into it,” Trick taunts.
“Perfect. While you’re at it, why don’t you go fuck yourself then and leave at least one goddamn tourist for the rest of us.”
He storms off as quickly as he came, leavingan awkward silence hanging between the three of us.
“Sorry about thatbeautiful lipsthing,” Trick mutters after a few tense seconds. “I’d explain myself, but it would probably take a therapist to make sense of my own special brand of fucked up. But I promise, nailed down or not, I’m not trying to get into your pants.”
I’m not sure if I should be offended or relieved, so I settle for grabbing the equipment off the counter and nudging Flynn toward the ocean.
FLYNN
