A heavenly call that says: Eat me.
The masses in front of me seem to clear away, as if by a sudden divine command, and I am gifted with a direct view of the walk-up window where a particularly bored employee appears to be awaiting his next customer. He’s got cute, messy hair that fires off in every direction, like he either recently woke up or just had some very messy sex behind that counter and couldn’t be bothered to run a hand through it. His uniform t-shirt—blue and white stripes, like a sailor, complete with a white handkerchief around his neck—fits his swimmer-bod torso and shoulders snugly. His chin is propped up by his hand like an adorable, pouting pixie, and his eyes seem to be lost in something far, far away, daydreaming.
No, he isn’t looking at me. No one looks at me. Yet I’m struck by the sight of him all the same. What’s on that cute funnel cake dude’s mind? What led this tired cutie to desire making funnel cakes for beach town vacationers like me?
And more importantly: how much will it cost to buy ten of them?
That’s when a vengeful, briny gust comes whipping by, snatching my modesty towel straight off my waist like a frat boy’s prank, then carrying it off to Oz. My ass is left standing in the middle of the boardwalk, exposed in just my tiny pair of cock-and-ball-hugging, sunshine-yellow, look-at-me trunks.
And that’s when the bastard finally looks my way.
Chapter 2 - Kent
Well, there goes his towel.
No idea what he was doing covering up his goods, anyway. Doesn’t he know where he is? No one covers up their junk here. They let it all fly free.
Fucking tourists, am I right?
At first, the guy is frozen to the spot. Panic sets in, which he clearly seems conflicted about. Will he run and hide, or play it off like he totally meant for the wind to steal away his towel? The poor guy can’t seem to make up his mind. Then he adopts a sort of cocky stance, fully committed to his newly exposed state, and struts across the boardwalk to me.
It’s charming, how he thinks he has everyone fooled. That charm is increased tenfold as he draws closer and I realize he really is a total boy-next-door babe. You don’t get a lot of them around here. All I ever see on the tourist beach are overly oiled pecs, designer sunglasses, and plastic cheekbones. It’s like finding a sand dollar when a guy like him catches your eye.
And he’s got me captured for sure.
More than just my eye.
He comes to a stop in front of me, hair hilariously windblown and eyes screwed up to the menu over my head. “Hi. How much is a—?”
“Aren’t you gonna go after your towel?”
He barely acknowledges the question. “What towel? I’d like a funnel cake to go, please. Are they normal sized or tiny tasty rip-offs? Never mind, I’ll take one. No, two. Actually no, make that one.”
“The towel that was formerly protecting your dignity. Cute trunks, by the way.”
“Are you gonna keep ogling my sunny-side-up eggs,” he asks curtly while keeping his eyes glued to the menu and pretending his face isn’t red with humiliation, “or can I get one of your funnel cakes sometime today?”
I smirk, amused. This one’s got a mouth. Why does that make him even hotter? Like I can do it in my sleep, my hands go to work dropping the batter into the oil as I talk to him. “You want any toppings on it?”
Though he’s looking at the menu above my head, he doesn’t seem very focused on it. “Toppings …?”
I lean against the counter and point up at the menu. “See? We can put all matters of tasty goodies on it. Whipped cream. Strawberries are fairly popular, though I don’t get the appeal. They’re all tart and tasteless. I can drizzle chocolate all over it, too.” I smirk. “Or just go with classic powdered sugar if you’re boring.”
He finally snaps his eyes to mine. “Boring?”
I might have underestimated his attractiveness. He’s got eyes as deep as they come—brown, rich, and unexpectedly intense. And his cheeks are dusted with a sexy, perfect amount of scruff. I wonder if he’s a writer. Or a poet. Maybe a deep and troubled painter, burning the midnight oil every night figuring out the placement of that next brave stroke of color.
Either way, he’s fun to play with. “I’m getting the impression you don’t get out very often.”
The guy parts his lips. Damn, I could murder those lips. “I—What? I get out enough. Why would you say—?”
“Hangry? Is that it? Are you that deadly combination of hungry and angry? Been there. Look.” I tilt my head, leveling with him. “You’re not my usual customer. I only get bears and lip-lickin’ mamas and the rare child who gets brought along on a vacation to a place their parents ought to have researched a little more first. The Saturday night leather daddies from El Amado usually scare them off if the nude beach doesn’t.”