The first time I meet Casper North, I have no idea he’s stalking me. Don’t get me wrong. I know someone is stalking me. Anyone with a smidge of intuition can feel the subtle invasion of privacy. The weight of their eyes hovering. The prickles on the back of your neck. Followed by shivers running down your spine…yeah. Not a friggin’ cup of tea.

It’s not a constant feeling. But at least once a day, it catches me off guard like a hand tugging at my shoulder, begging me to look around for the person responsible. The surrounding air grows heavy, my breath hitches, and my heart beats faster. I imagine that feeling is terrifying for most stalker victims. But while Casper is watching, I feel safe.

I know, I know. Stalkers are creepy. Heroes make you feel safe and protected. The two roles don’t usually go hand in hand. But for whatever reason, Casper makes me feel like he’ll demolish anyone who tries to harm me. It’s strangely comforting.

The first time I meet him face-to-face, that same feeling is there, but it doesn’t quite register. I’m at Clearwater Beach on a date with myself. It’s a semi-secluded area, mostly local beachgoers. The perfect place to think. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, thinking. About life, the future, everything.

Gran was buried exactly one month ago. I’ve checked four of the five stages of grief off my list. There’s a sixth one they don’t tell you about though. Self-pity. That’s where I’m currently at, wallowing somewhere between anger and depression. Gran was old. She died in her sleep. I should be more okay with this, but I’m not. She was all I had.

The beach doesn’t make me forget the unbearable unfairness of burying my only living relative, but it does take the edge off. It reminds me there are still beautiful places inside my little dark world. The water on the gulf is peaceful, the tide gently lulling, but never breaking into huge waves. All around me is a stretch of soft white sand and dark blue sea, and I feel small in comparison. I like to float along the shoreline and stare up at the sky. The water covers my ears, blocking out everything but the sound of my own breath. Clear blue breaks around the orangey-yellow sun, the colors so vivid I wish I could capture them on a canvas.

Everyone has a place they go to feel like themselves. For me, this is it. Right here in the shallow end of the ocean. There’s a part of me that needs the sea and the sky to breathe. I swallow huge lungfuls of salty air, needing it now more than ever.

Water sloshes over my bare stomach as someone treads close. I don’t even hear him yelling until he’s standing over me.

All at once I go still.

When God created man, I’m pretty sure this one was the vision.

His head blocks the sun, golden rays glittering around his black hair and tanned skin. I swallow, noticing the sculpted perfection of his abs, the smooth panes of his chest. Every ridge, every muscle, dripping with water. Everything about him is perfect. And big. And solid.

If I were standing, he would tower over me. But because I’m floating in the water, his bigness is even more pronounced. He looks like he was carved from stone, unmovable and impenetrable. If the sea were to throw its heaviest, mightiest wave against him, I bet he’d still be standing there.

Stupid Florida heat. It’s getting to my head, and now I’m loopy, daydreaming about Roman statues coming to life.

I blink several times, but he doesn’t disappear.

He isn’t a hallucination.

I follow his bulging, tattooed biceps upward to the strong lines of his neck, his chiseled jaw, the day-old stubble, and…oh my.

His eyes.

A brilliant shade of green.

Framed by black lashes and slashing brows, they’re the same shade as the palm trees lining the edge of the beach, slightly darker at the outer rim and disturbingly sensual. The color is jarring paired with his hair and skin, but maybe that’s just me, picking out contrasts the way I paint colors. I read somewhere that only two percent of the population has green eyes. A rarity. And his—I’m pretty sure his are the only ones with that level of intensity.

This guy reminds me of my high school field trip to the Dalí Museum. I stared at the art for hours, completely absorbed by every little detail, finding it difficult to tear myself away. With him, I feel the exact same way. The hypnotic grab of his eyes. The strong, angular lines of his face. The tiny white scar at the corner of his square jaw. The roughness to his skin. Every detail draws me in further, craving to see more. I hope he stays there for a while, just so I can keep marveling.

But the green-eyed masterpiece yells again, the sound muffled through the water. That’s when it hits me. He’s angry. His dark brows are furrowed together, jaw ticking, all of that rage and fury directed at me.

I search for the bottom of the ocean with my feet. What could I have possibly done?

Standing upright without the water to help shield me, I suddenly feel naked in my blue bikini. Plenty of the beachgoers here wear next to nothing, their bronze, fit bodies barely covered with tiny bikinis and swim trunks. But under this man’s scrutiny, each of my curves become more noticeable than they were a second ago. His gaze drops to my chest, then quickly back up to my face, as if he’d momentarily forgotten his anger.

“What did you say?” I ask, my voice sounding small.

Behind him, the lifeguard is waving a red flag from his giant lookout chair—a warning for everyone to get out of the water.

“Look!” He points directly behind me.

The unmistakable gray triangle of a shark fin speeds through the water only a few dozen feet away. Everything inside me shrieks, and I back up onto the beach. While I was languidly floating, that thing was swimming nearby.

“Don’t you pay attention to your surroundings?” He tilts his head, looking at me as if he’s wondering how I could be so dumb.

“I…I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.

He grunts, then turns and walks off.

I watch him leave, half dazed, half disappointed. My interlude with the beautiful come-to-life Roman statue is over, and I can’t help but wish he’d hang back, if only to yell at me some more.

What’s the matter with me?

Ethan’s face fills my mind, and guilt eats at me for the way I’m ogling another man. Ogling other men isn’t something I usually do. Actually, it’s something I never do. I’m too busy inside my own hectic bubble to notice them.

This is a sign. You should break up with Ethan.

Ugh. That nagging inner voice is driving me crazy. I come out here to get away from it.

I glance out into the sea again. The sand squishes between my toes, anchoring me there as I catch sight of the shark fin swimming to and fro. The green-eyed man is an angel. An angry one, but still an angel.

I search for him again, scanning the beach where he walked away, but he’s long gone. I look everywhere, up and down the shoreline, disappointed that I’m unable to find him.

Whoever you are, thanks for saving my life.