The salty breeze glides through the small seaside cantina. Chimes dangling from the exposed beams overhead jingle faintly and, if I were so inclined, I could close my eyes and drift off to sleep. I am not, however, ready for a nap. I’m way too hungry. Reading will do that to you.

How reading has never been classified as a sport has always boggled my mind. A good book leaves you tense and breathless. And, if you’re reading the right kind of story, there’s sweat. Exhaustion. And balls. Sometimes more than one, depending on the genre.

My grilled chicken entrée is placed before me, along with a fresh margarita. Every hesitation I had about coming to San Diego alone for the weekend melts away with every sip of the tequila-infused drink. Who knew I even liked tequila? Not me. Or maybe that was just my second ex-husband’s concoction that was more like jet fuel than a mixed drink. This one is perfection.

This is perfection.

No kids. No ex-husbands. No ex-husbands’ new wives. No library patrons that claim to never have checked out a certain book that’s been overdue for six months or a boss that says “Yes” to every suggestion by the public and follows it with, “Here, Collins. Can you handle this?”

Collins is tired of handling his shit. And Joe’s shit. And Kyle’s shit. Let their wives and their fake smiles handle their shit. I. Am. Done.

And a little tipsy, quite possibly.

Grabbing a lime from the little basket on the center of the table, I roll it around with the palm of my hand. I saw a chef on television do this with her perfectly manicured fingers as she explained this action helps release the fruit juices. Now seems a like a good time to try this.

It doesn’t look any different—no more round or soft than it was before. I grab a knife and begin to slide it through the skin when it hits another type of skin. Mine.

“Ouch!” I hiss. The knife clamors against the side of my plate and hits the table.

Without looking, I pull paper napkins out of the holder next to the salt and pepper and wrap them around my finger. It pulses as if it might explode right off my body.

My lips go dry. My mouth waters like it does right before you vomit. It’s not a good look or a good feeling and all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t pass out.

The napkins don’t feel tacky. Maybe there’s no blood.

My stomach knots so hard I cringe.

I don’t do blood. I can’t even think about it. That was ruined for me in one particular nursing school class the day before I switched my career path to something less barbaric. What could be safer than a library?

You’re too safe, Collins. You’re the least spontaneous person I know. You can’t walk around in bubble wrap your entire life.

Fuck you and your words that still sting, Kyle.

That’s the last coherent through I have before focusing my attention on the tinkling of the chimes. Maybe when I open my eyes, I’ll—

“Excuse me. Are you okay?”

My eyes shoot open at the deep, smooth timbre of a voice I’m one thousand percent sure I don’t know. As my gaze latches onto irises the color of the ocean in the morning, I drop the napkins.

“Shit,” I mutter, scrambling to pick them up without looking at my finger. When I notice they’re all still clean—i.e.: not red—I blow out a deep, thankful breath.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh!” I divert my attention back to the man in front of me. Flush spreads across my cheeks. “I’m fine …”

My voice trails off as I take him in. He grins but doesn’t say anything. He just stands there in his blue button-up and dark denim jeans that display a trim waist and what I’m sure is a set of muscled thighs. A set of cheekbones are carved just under those baby blues and just above a hard jawline.

Words, Collins. Use words. You love them. Use them.

His lips part in a practiced way, as if he’s attempting to appear neutral but is really hiding amusement.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, clearing my throat. “I cut myself, but it’s fine.” Flipping my attention to my finger, I see a clean little line on the tip. I can’t feel the pain over the adrenaline rushing through my veins full tilt.

“If you’d like me to take a look, I will. I’m a doctor.”

That would require you touching me and I might faint.

Come to think of it, that would require CPR.

My eyes go to his mouth, now curled into an undeniable smirk, and I hope my whimper was only in my head.

“Like a medical doctor?” I ask, sitting taller. Like you care. “Not a veterinarian or something, right?”

The smirk gives way to a laugh. “I have a medical license in the state of Arizona. Dr. Connor Manning, if you’d like to look it up.”

“I trust you,” I say.

“Trust? Yikes. This got serious fast,” he jokes.

“Honestly,” I say, wadding the napkins up and putting them on the edge of the table, “I have major trust issues. Sort of. I mean, I’ll trust the guy selling me a television even though I know he wants to sell me the most expensive one. I can respect that, you know? He needs to make a living and it’s a television. Nothing life-changing. He’s not selling me on him.”

“You clearly don’t watch the right shows if you don’t think a television can be life-changing.”

“Shows are so unbelievable now,” I groan. “Like the woman dies holding the hand of the man she loves, we all know it, only to find out she’s really ‘in love’ with her ex,” I say, using air quotes. “But she’s not. She doesn’t love him. She loved the first guy. The one she was meant to be with. So that whole ending is just … That’s not how happy endings work.”

“Maybe not all endings are happy.”

“Who wants to watch an unhappy ending?” I gasp. “I have a life full of mediocre-to-crappy endings. If I’m investing my time in something fictional, show me the fictional happy because we know it doesn’t exist in reality.”

He bursts into laughter. Shaking his head, he grips the top of the chair across from me. His forearms flex as he moves his fingers, his oversized watch catching the light, and I’m suddenly propelled back to reality.

“Anyway, back to trust,” I say, slowing myself. “I trust facts. I will trust that you’re a doctor because you aren’t my doctor. Why do I care? I just don’t trust people. Everyone is a jackass on some level.”

“I can’t really argue that. People are jackasses. That’s why I’m here.” He makes a face like he just bit into one of the limes in front of him.

“Here? In the cantina? Or San Diego?”

I have no business asking this. It’s probably a really personal thing and he’s going to look at me like I’ve overstepped my bounds and disappear into the sunset.

Well, probably not because he’d be more beautiful than the sunset and couldn’t really disappear.

He holds my gaze for a long second, my insides heating with each passing moment. The air between us swirls, delivering bursts of his warm-scented cologne across the table.

“My half brother is a jackass,” he says finally. “Long story short—Cane, my half brother, and I were supposed to do a golf charity event this weekend in Palm Springs. He backed out at the last minute.”

“So, you live here?”

“Nope. Phoenix. But I already had a plane ticket and was flying here first anyway to deliver a presentation at a hospital. So … here I am.”

I start to respond when the server interrupts us.

“Sir? Can I get you something?” he asks Connor.

Connor looks at me, then back to the server. “I actually have an order. I was sitting at the bar.”

“Was sitting, sir? Or should I move you here with the lady?”

My stomach flutters like a handful of butterflies were released inside it. Connor raises a brow as he takes in my reaction.

My breath is stolen again as I’m reminded of how handsome he is. Talking to him is so easy that I forgot how piercing his gaze is or how his shoulders seem to go on forever. Now, though, I can’t look away. It’s all I see.

Forcing a swallow down my tight throat, I smile. “If you want to sit here, that’s fine with me. No pressure though,” I add at the end for good measure. Desperation is both not a good look and not true. Ish. The ache between my thighs calls a little bullshit on that last part.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yeah. Totally up to you.”

He chats with the server as I silently lambast myself for not wearing makeup. My face has nothing on it but a little lip gloss and aloe vera gel to hopefully keep the redness off my skin from the sun. Of all the times not to at least wear mascara, it had to be now.

The sound of the chair dragging across the floor whips my attention around just in time to see Connor sitting across from me. His drink is placed in front of him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s watching me.

“What were we talking about?” he asks.

“Um, your brother being a jackass, I think,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Oh. Cane. Right.” He nods. “Enough about him. Trust me, his ego is big enough. He probably can sense we’re talking about him now and his head is growing bigger as we speak.”

Laughing, I lift my margarita. “He sounds interesting.”

“He’s not.” He grins. “Are you from here?”

“Just visiting for the weekend.”

“You have friends here?”

“Nope.” I take a sip of my margarita in hopes it hits my bloodstream fast. “I’m on my first solo vacation.”

He furrows a brow. “You shouldn’t tell just anyone that, you know. With your self-admitted trust issues, I’m surprised you’d tell me.”

“I’m also a black belt in aikido,” I lie. “So, don’t get any ideas.”

“I promise not to get any of those kinds of ideas.”

He takes a drink of what looks like beer, his eyes never leaving me. I squirm in my seat as his innuendo hangs heavily over the table.

“May I ask why you’re vacationing alone?” he asks, sitting his glass on a coaster. “Do you have a jackass sister that backed out on you?”

“No.” I laugh. “I have two jackass ex-husbands that have jackass wives. And kids that get needier the older they get. It was my New Year’s resolution to get out and do more things for me.”

“And this trip is for you?”

“Exactly.”

Siting back in his chair, he assesses me. “What do you hope to get out of this trip?”

“Balance,” I offer. “Peace. Reading. A tan.” An orgasm.

“I’m going to go over the ‘tan’ part of that with all the skin cancer warnings out there and go straight to the reading. What do you read?”

My cheeks match the color of the chopped tomato around the chicken breast in front of me. I’m not embarrassed that the title of the book in my bag is a variation on a harem, but I’m not sure I want to see his reaction. If his eyes get more hooded, I might not be able to take it.

I shrug. “A little of everything, really. If it has words, I’ll read it. Magazines, cookbooks, biographies.”

“You read biographies for fun?” He gives me a look. “Whose bios are you reading?”

“I don’t only read that,” I say.

I contemplate leaving it there, letting him think I’m some stick-in-the-mud that reads life stories of historical figures, but something about that doesn’t seem appealing.

“I’m a librarian,” I confess. “I read all sorts of things. Whatever looks interesting. I guess I spend most of my time with romances.”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes at the word “romance” that makes me shiver. A spattering of goose bumps dots my arms as he licks his bottom lip.

Maybe I should’ve went for the harem title.

“Romances, huh?” he asks. “That sounds a hell of a lot better than biographies.”

“They read better too.”

“I bet they do.” He chuckles. His face stills, his eyes darkening as he seems to consider his next words. “I bet your boyfriend approves.”

That might’ve been said with levity, as if he’s making some random observation, but that’s not the complete truth. If it were, the warmth in his tone would be missing. The edges to the syllables that rakes across my skin wouldn’t be there. The heat of his gaze wouldn’t be asking me to correct him on his language.

This is the way a man looks at a woman in the romances I read. Like she’s the most interesting thing in the room—the only thing in the room. Like he can’t take his eyes off her.

Like he wants to devour her.

Breathe, Collins.

“I bet he would too if he existed.” I shrug as nonchalantly as I can.

There’s nothing nonchalant about the way he leans forward. “That’s a shame.”

Being single has been a choice since my divorce papers were signed. Men have overcomplicated my life since I married Joe at nineteen. It didn’t get any less complex when I married Kyle not a year after my first divorce.

I’ve spent the last few months actually enjoying my freedom. Discovering myself and that I don’t like sausage patties, as both Joe and Kyle did for breakfast, but rather I like sausage links with a drizzle of maple syrup. It’s funny what you don’t know about yourself until you spend some time alone.

I’ve also toyed with the idea that I spend a lot of time doing what I deem the right thing because that’s what was expected of me. Even when Kyle would ride me about always playing it safe, I justified it by saying I was a married woman with three kids. I couldn’t just hit the bar or cue up porn or wear a low-cut top. What would people say?

Yet, sitting across from this man, quite possibly the best-looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on, there’s no one around I know. There’s no one to judge. There’s no one to fall in love with that will ultimately break my heart down the road.

There’s just him. And me. And an intensity growing between us that’s palpable.

A trickle of sweat trickles down my heated skin. The longer he looks at me, the darker his eyes become.

My brain rapid-fires all sorts of nonsense, warring with itself over my next move. I finally let go, succumbing to the throb between my legs and the need to be bad. Just this once.