He lunges forward with a wet, sloppy lick to my cheek. A laugh breaks out of me, before I can stop it.
"I’m sorry—he’s usually much better behaved. I think the sea air made him forget his manners."
The voice is low and resonant, carrying an intensity that seems to settle in the air itself. There’s the faintest trace of an accent at its edges—subtle enough that I can’t place it, yet it lingers after he stops speaking.
I lift my eyes and find a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, with short dark hair that falls in thick waves. His face is composed of sharp edges and strong lines, anchored by eyes that seem to flare like embers when they catch the light.
“Alexander Santoro. Sorry about Sam.”
The rough timbre of his voice curls under my skin, sending a quick shiver racing along my arms. I rub them briskly, telling myself it’s the breeze.
He holds out his hand, and I rise to take it. As soon as our hands touch, the air shifts around us. The heat of his palm is startling against my skin.
"Cecily Montgomery," I reply, my voice finally finding its footing. I let go quickly, the gold band on my finger catching the light as I tuck a damp strand of hair behind my ear. "No worries… Sam just startled me. He’s adorable."
Alexander looks down at him with gentle fondness, giving the dog's head a few steady pats. "He’s a good boy."
A silence settles between us. It lasts long enough to feel charged, but not uncomfortable, filled only by the roar of the surf. I shift my weight, my toes digging into the cool sand. “Do you live around here?” I ask lightly.
“Just passing through. I came with my sister, but she took off to visit her friends nearby.”
He gestures toward the house just a few yards from my in-laws’ place.
“What about you?”
I look toward the water, where Ethan now has Alicia perched on his shoulders before tossing her into the waves.
“With my kids,” I say. “Squeezing in the last few days before school starts again.”
Alexander nods, running a hand through his hair. That’s when I notice the faint smudge of white paint streaked along his forearm, stark against the bronze of his skin.
"Are you a painter?" I ask, my curiosity momentarily overriding my reserve.
He follows my gaze and chuckles, a low sound that seems to vibrate in the air. "You could say that. I was restoring some furniture at the house."
"Ah, so you're a restorer?"
He shakes his head. "Civil engineer. I just like working with my hands when I get the chance."
My eyes flick involuntarily to his hands—large, long-fingered, roughened by work.
"And you?" he asks, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes the beach feel smaller. "What do you work in?"
"I'm a blogger. Lifestyle, social issues... that sort of thing," I say. I offer the simple title because it’s easier, a way to keep the conversation light and avoid the questions that always follow when I mention my column for USA Today. Out here, with thesalt on my skin, I’d rather just be another face on the beach than a name in a byline.
"What’s the name?" he asks. "I’d like to read it, if you don’t mind."
"A Small World."
"A Small World," he repeats. He says it slowly, the faint accent curling around the syllables as if he's tasting the words.
He smiles then, a slow, genuine expression that reaches those ember eyes. He offers his hand one last time. "It was a pleasure, Cecily. I should go—Sam needs water."
That accent clings to my name, holding it a second too long.
"Nice meeting you too," I say softly.
I watch him jog back toward the house with Sam bounding at his side. A strange, nagging thought takes root as I watch his retreating figure.
