I stared at the bouquet of flowers like it was a bomb about to go off.

When I’d opened my cabin door to a shy teenager, sheepishly holding a vase of irises, I thought Lucia had sent them.

But the card was from Gabe: You don’t seem like a girl who likes roses. So I chose something that looked most like a work of art.”

He was right. I hated roses—too traditional. But the periwinkle irises were cheerful-looking and unique, their bright yellow centers like something Monet would paint.

Let me chase you.

I’d stumbled home from Calvin’s patio barely six hours earlier and tossed and turned all night.

Anticipation had kept me awake. Because Gabe was right—waiting made it all the more delicious.

Now, staring at his card, I couldn’t stop the flutter in my stomach. Excitement and nerves.

I had a fucking crush.

Who I’d be seeing tonight and only for tonight. And it was okay. It’d been two years since Clarke. Surely my bruised heart could handle a little crush. Middle schoolers had crushes for fuck’s sake.

Plus, this crush was going to drop to his fucking knees at my command tonight.

Really it was just a sex-crush.

Which was fine.

Another tentative knock at the door: the same sheepish teenager, this time with a bouquet of wildflowers.

“Again?” I asked, scooping the bouquet from him.

Another card. This one said: I can’t stop thinking about kissing you.”

Goddammit.

“How many more you got?” I asked, craning my neck around the delivery boy. In the distance, I saw another three bouquets lined up. All bright and colorful. All different.

“All for me?” I asked, and the messenger nodded.

“Yeah. I’m supposed to deliver them every half hour.”

“Well, the cat’s out of the bag, kid. Why don’t you just give them to me now?”

He shook his head. “He said you’d say that. And he said I’m supposed to remind you that you’re being chased.”

Viking Man Bun was going to be my fucking kryptonite.

I rolled my eyes to the sky. Lucia wasn’t going to believe this.

“Okay, then. See you in thirty,” I finally said, closing the door in the kid’s face.

I can’t stop thinking about kissing you.

I’d spent the entirety of my first date with Clarke wanting him to kiss me. We’d met the day before, in line for coffee, and I thought he was cute. Like really fucking cute. I didn’t go on a lot of dates back then, but when he’d asked me out, I found myself nodding like an obedient dog.

He didn’t kiss me. Not on the first date. Or the second. Or the third. I recognize it now as all part of his game. Clarke loved the game. Loved it when women were fawning and desperate for his affection. On the fourth date, I kissed him.

He was actually a terrible kisser, but I ignored that crucial detail.

One of many things I ended up ignoring.

But he’d always remind me that I’d made the first move: “I was just trying to be your friend. You’re the one who took it to the next level,” he’d say. He loved to tell this story to friends, to watch women swoon and men laugh. On the surface, it was an adorable story of how we met.

But as our relationship grew more intense—as red flags flared to life almost daily—it became a subtle jab, his way of reminding me that the stress and anxiety I now carried like a heavy cloak was my own fault.

You wanted this.

This was your choice, not mine.

As if I’d been stringing him along this entire time.

Before Clarke, I cultivated my independence dearly. I’d watched my four older brothers achieve their professional dreams without help from my parents, and I wanted that. To rely on myself. I paid my own way through beauty school, working the Clinique counter. Shared a two-bedroom apartment with four other women. I had a dream, and nothing would stop me from working for it.

Before Clarke, I’d flirted and kissed and danced with boys at clubs, but that was as far as I wanted to go. Marriage was something your parents did. I was too busy having my picture taken by the paparazzi with Lucia outside a club at four in the morning, too busy saying ‘fuck it’ to anything serious.

Three months into dating Clarke, as I left my apartment to move into his shittier one, I’d spend the day anxiously waiting for him to say “jump” so I could plead “how high?”

I got up and paced around the tiny cabin, finally throwing open the door to the view of the ocean to get some air. I’d grown up around the ocean, but this was different. No boardwalk, no rollerbladers or body builders or people blaring their radios on this beachfront… this ocean was raw and rocky. Dark thunderclouds threatened rain in the distance, and I shivered as I thought about what a storm would do to those waves. It was the same feeling I’d had last night.

I can’t stop thinking about kissing you.

Big Sur felt like a beautiful danger.

The messenger stood awkwardly behind me with the remaining bouquets.

“Do you need anything? Coffee? Water?” I asked him.

“No, ma’am,” he said, looking at his watch. “I’ll just be here, waiting.”

“Do you have a name?”

“It’s Peter, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”

I nodded as a flurry of nerves roared up my spine. Settling onto a rock, I watched the waves crash against the shore, over and over. I needed to get on set. I needed to distract myself with colors and textures and Lucia’s calming presence.

I needed to fuck the ever-loving shit out of Viking Man Bun, toss those bouquets off this cliff, and get the hell out of Big Sur.

Peter and I walked through the forest toward The Mad Ones. The wind was picking up, slicing through the trees, and my delivery boy refused to let me carry the remaining bouquets.

“So I’m guessing you know Gabe?” I finally asked, picking my way gingerly over roots and leaves.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Everyone knows Gabe. And his family.”

“Is he… like, is he a nice guy?” I asked. One thing I’d learned from Clarke. I only knew Clarke was nice because he’d told me, over and over again. But when you sought outside references—friends, coworkers, family—there were a scant few who could honestly say he was a good guy.

Because he didn’t really have friends, and he was a total dick to his coworkers.

“Gabe?” Peter said with such incredulity I got a sick feeling in my stomach. I knew it.

“So he’s an asshole,” I said. “Also sorry for cursing. You’re a child, basically. Or are you?”

“I’m seventeen,” he said, lifting his chin the way all teenagers do when you refer to them as children. “And I curse all the time. And Gabe is the nicest motherfucker I know.”

“Can you clarify this declarative statement? Do you have examples, experiences, et cetera?”

Peter shrugged. “Big Sur’s a small town. Really small. And Gabe’s family is like royalty here. But not… fancy; just, I don’t know, everywhere. His dad was on the city council, and he’s done a lot to help people. Gabe’s brother and his girlfriend both teach at the elementary school. Gabe’s sister lives in Monterey, but she and her wife are always out for community events, raising money. That kind of thing.”

“Good examples,” I said, impressed. “Go on.”

“Gabe is Big Sur. He knows the history; he really cares about it. He’s really nice and always wants to help, and he’s funny, and all of my sisters think he’s hot.”

I was starting to wish I hadn’t asked Peter for clear-cut examples. And I was starting to wonder if acting out my most secret sexual fantasies with a man who was also sweet, gentle, and kind was really that smart of an idea.

“Thank you, Peter,” I said as we approached the bookstore. “I respect your honesty. Now I have to go to work. Are you going to give me the remaining bouquets or what?”

Peter pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. Read it. Put it back. “Ma’am—”

“Josie, please. Let’s not be so formal,” I said, sardonically.

“Josie, Gabe said you’d say that as well because you’re impatient and stubborn, just like him. And I’m supposed to remind you that—” he looked back down at the paper—“you’re being chased. Get used to it.”

I bristled, ignoring the strange sensations the words were eliciting.

“Do you want to come in and wait?”

But Peter shook his head, settling on a chair on the patio, taking out a book. “Only three left. Not so bad.”

I lifted my eyes skyward and then walked inside the bookstore. Lucia was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a tiny robe, hands propped on her hips.

“¿Dónde estuviste anoche?” she asked with a sly grin.

I laid my black bag on the table, slowly unrolling my array of tools and colors.

“First, coffee,” I said, indicating the makeup chair. She plopped into it obediently. “And then I’ll tell you about my night.”