“I love scratch tickets. Not beating off in public.” He rubs his hands through his wet hair. “I won five hundred dollars. It was exciting. Until it wasn’t.”
The staff left cups of water for him. He grabs another for his eyes and scoots back, and I help him douse his red eyes again.
“It’s not often these pay off, but I guess I’m done with the scratchers. Damaged for life and whatnot now. And by the way, whatever your job is sounds shitty, and you should tell everyone to fuck off. Your personal life also sounds shitty.” Blond Boy lies back and covers his eyes with another towel.
“So, you were eavesdropping?”
“No, I was simply awake, and you were loudly broadcasting your life.” He welcomes the piña colada the bartender brings him on the house.
The chair next to him is free, of course, after the chaos, so I sit down. “I’m an asshole.”
“I’m David. Dave. And I’m not an asshole.”
“I’m Diana and normally not an asshole either,” I say weakly. “Seriously, so sorry. Just thought I was catching some kind of sexual predator. I’ve watched too muchSVU.”
David jolts up and belts out the sound effect from the show’s theme song. “DUN-DUN!”
“DUN-DUN,” I repeat with a grin. “You’re a fan?”
“Loyal for years.”
Now that he’s sitting upright and after the assault/help I inflicted, I realize I failed to notice that he’s stupidly gorgeous. Until now. And ripped. And wearing a bathing suit that is cute. Most guys throw on a suit that is either oversize or too tiny and creepy. His is the perfect fit. I silently groan. He’s the kind of superficial guy I’d expect to find here. Hair like a rockstar, shaped around his face. Shaped, but not too intentionally shaped. That cut probably cost him over a hundred bucks. Yet he doesn’t strike me as a snob.
I’m intrigued. And even me—with my no-makeup, hair-in-a-knot-most-times self—cannot resist making a little move, even after accosting him and accusing him of public indecency.
“Want to sit on a chair that’s not soaked? There’s a free lounger next to mine up front. A good view of the ocean.”
It’s probably weird to be flirting with a guy I wanted to be arrested minutes ago, but, dammit, he’s attractive. Alluring.
We move to the better view.
“Do you prefer being called Dave or David?” I ask, trying to distract him from our rather tragic first encounters.
“Either. Maybe Dave. Probably my mom uses David more?” He sips his drink. “And you have an awful career of some sort, I gather?”
That wink he gives me as he lies back is annoyingly cute.
I hesitate before answering, as my career doesn’t sound like a real career. “I work in the food arena. Sort of.”
“Yousort ofcook food?”
“No.” I laugh and tell him about how I accidentally became an influencer because of an account I’d created years ago. “But now my posts are all about Boston restaurants. Mostly the smaller ones I want to help out. Give them the business they deserve.”
He can see I’m not happy. “But something changed?”
My buzz and I end up telling this Dave person how I’m pulled in too many directions, how uncomfortable it is to have a career that I don’t feel like I deserve. “So weird to be making money off of helping restaurants survive.”
“Seems to me that you’re doing a good thing.”
“Maybe.” And then I ask him what feels like the most important question. I lift up my sunglasses and lean his way. “How do you feel about dumplings?”
He whips his head my way. “Like, potstickers? Gyoza?”
“Yes.”
“That’s an easy answer.” Dave inhales the last of his drink and signals for another, one that arrives within a minute, as the staff is now probably afraid of some lawsuit. “Crucial to life. Those and all the sauces. Do you know about that scallion sauce, where you pour hot oil over chopped greens?”
That was unexpected. And, for me, a totally sexy response.
