Dammit. Think about work. Not him.
From my spot under the production canopy, I watch the volunteers assemble in their designated zones. Some are eager, some scroll through their phones, and others are already scanning for an exit.
A blonde bombshell strides into view, all toned legs, a bikini top that’s two triangles barely covering the essentials, and a ponytail that screamsbeach influencerinstead ofbeach cleanup. She flicks her safety gloves into her trash bagas if they’re an inconvenience.
Not on my watch.I intercept her.
“Hey, sorry, gloves need to stay on your hands,” I say, pointing at her trash bag.
She groans. “They’re ugly. My vibe iscute volunteer, nothazard worker.”
“Trust me,” I say, voice soft but firm. “You’ll sing a different tune when you’re sitting in urgent care, explaining to the nurse why you need a hepatitis shot from mystery beach slime.”
She pauses, weighing her options. With a theatrical sigh, she grabs the gloves and puts them on. “Fine, but if I don’t get a number today, I’m telling everyone your safety rules ruined my love life.”
“That’s fair,” I say, smiling, because let’s be real. I just worked my magic.
Bikini girl spots a beach guy two rows over, fumbling with gloves and locks on. She adjusts her bikini top(the two triangles defying physics), lifts her chin, and struts toward him with the clear upper hand. Poor guy doesn’t stand a chance.
He glances up and grins. Not polite. Not shy. The kind that telegraphs trouble. Adamn-this-sure-got-interestinggrin that says he’s ready to play.
I’ve seen that grin before.
On Cole.
He flashed it at lunch(quick, unguarded, gone before I could process it).Unlike this beach guy, who’s letting his hungry eyes linger, Cole flipped back into competition mode.
Why didn’t he walk to the beach with me?
I invited him. Casually. Professionally. Friendly even. And he dropped that “I’ll meet you there” like he was ending a conference call, picked up his bag, and left me staring at his abandoned shrimp plate.
No flirting.
No smirk.
Nothing.
I am ninety-nine percent sure our elevator kiss wasn’t a hallucination. He kissed me back. I mean,reallykissed me back. He hauled me in so tight my breath caught and just… stayed caught, somewhere between his mouth and mine. His lips were hungry, needy, and his desperation was real. I’d bet my favorite blazer on it.
So why did he walk away, like he was allergic to me more than shellfish?
Before my brain can spiral into some ridiculous theory about his mixed signals, I fixate on the monitor, my lifeline.
But that’s a lie. What I’mreallydoing is…
Staring at Cole crouching in the damp sand, his lens trained on Sienna. Ms. Sun-Kissed Skin and Effortless Confidence, who literally saves sea turtles for a living.
She laughs, and he smiles, capturing the shot.
Get your shit together, Ivy. Stop settling for crumbs, for the scraps of attention you don’t even want.
I click the headset.
“Comms check.”
Cole’s voice comes through flat. “Copy.”
One word.
