“Can you please hold my spot, sweetheart?”

The combination of his bright green eyes and southern drawl has my bottom lip hiding gleefully between my teeth. I deliver a quick, polite nod before giving him space to squeeze by. Without any care or concern for who may be watching, I allow my eyes to follow his blue jean-framed ass out of sight.

Huh. In my entire life I have never seen a man look that sexy in jeans….

“Who the fuck does he think he is?” Cordie, my redheaded best friend, snaps. She stomps her feet angrily in the sand. “Why the fuck should we do him any sort of favor?”

“He said please,” Audrey, my brunette and shyer best friend, meekly recalls. “At least he was polite. How many men back home have those types of manners? How many times have we been out and-”

“And why the fuck did you say yes?” Cordie snips again, redirecting my attention back to her displeased expression. “You’re not a fucking bookmark! Or sticky note! Or valet ticket!”

Audrey tries to calm our friend’s sky rocketing temperament. “Cordie, you’re yelling….You know you hate how your face wrinkles when you yell.”

“I’m yelling because-”

“You’re clearly not drunk enough.” I shoot her a teasing smirk. “See, a drunk Cordie is a happy Cordie, and a bitchy Cordie means the shots we did earlier at the pool have finally worn off.”

She slowly nods at my logic.

It doesn’t take a mathematician to understand party girls are happiest when they’re partying. Cordie’s constant partying nature is the reason this beach trip even came about. It’s also the reason I know we’re going to have the most fun possible. True party girls like Cordie are always looking to add to the party, never kill it.

“We should do more shots,” Cordie suggests. “You know, before Cooper comes out.”

Audrey purses her lips together. “God, what I would do to that man if he’d only let me.”

“You and the rest of the female population here.” I chuckle.

Personally, I’m convinced Cooper Copeland’s annual Beers & Babes Beach Bash is just an excuse for him to get drunk with his country buddies and swim in the endless sea of groupies. He’s one of country music’s hottest stars, on the charts and physically speaking. The man looks like he should be ridden in a rodeo. Come to think of it, he also looks great in jeans. Not as good as the cowboy hottie who I almost humped when he passed me, but definitely a distant second. And I mean distant. Green eyes made my teeth hurt at how sweet his behind looked.

“It is my mission to get us close enough to Cooper for that to be a possibility,” Cordie informs loudly. “But for me to fuck him. Not you.”

There’s no argument out of Audrey.

Of course there’s not. Why would there be? Audrey’s comment was casual, the way most people talk about celebrities. Unlike our socialite star, when we mutter that shit, we don’t mean it. We don’t make a living off of spreading gossip or sharing conquests. We have normal jobs. Well…Audrey does. Mine’s a bit...unorthodox.

“Think he’ll play ‘Midnight Rain’ tonight or his closing night?” Audrey changes the subject.

The sadness trying not to appear in her brown eyes has me rushing to say, “He might not play it at all.”

“Of course he’s gonna fucking play it,” Cordie huffs like I’m an idiot. “Fifty bucks says he’ll play it both nights.”

I hit her with a harsh scowl.

Drop dead gorgeous, yet drop dead insensitive. Her callousness, I’ve discovered, is a combination of her neglectful parents and never properly being told when to shut the fuck up. This would be a prime example of one of those times. The last thing your recently divorced friend, who you’re here to help forget about her ex who is getting married this weekend, needs is to know without a doubt that she’s going to hear their wedding song. That’s basic friendship 101. That doesn’t even require me to use any of my perfected skillsets.

All of a sudden, the sexy, sun-kissed skinned stranger returns, though he’s not empty handed or alone.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Two words. Two words and my heart has made a new home in my throat while my pussy has decided it’s met its new master.

No. No. No. This is nothing more than a liquor filled reaction. Clearly, I’ve got my booze goggles on.

The over six feet tall male wets his full lips, successfully erasing my previous proclamation. He motions his head to the waiter at his side, who is holding six plastic cups. “Thought I’d bring you ladies back a round of shots to show my appreciation.”

This was the big selling point for all of us. Not only is the resort we’re staying at all-inclusive for food and alcohol, but so is the beach bash associated with it. There are waiters everywhere walking around the resort as well as the beach, waiting on you hand and foot. You are treated like royalty without regard to your race, age, or financial situation. To the people serving you everyone’s happiness is equally important. We all paid the price to be here. We all get the five star treatment, and for the next five nights, we’re going to overdose on it. Escaping the endless monotony of my life was the original intention for me. I plan to stick to that.

“Can everybody here hold their whiskey?” he teasingly questions.

“Probably better than you, cowboy,” I taunt back.

His laugh is light. Genuine. Full of love and warmth. It’s the type of sound you’d willingly let swallow you whole.

Interesting….Most men don’t allow themselves to be so open or exposed. Most men save that type of shit for the fifth or sixth date. The ones typically after they’ve had sex. After a woman has proven she can handle what they’re either most proud or ashamed of. True laughter, to many men, is more intimate than sex. They keep it guarded or locked up, terrified of how weak or vulnerable it makes them. It’s the reason so many do more smiling in the beginning of a relationship. It behaves as a viable substitute.

Okay. My brain is still in work mode. I must not be drunk enough, either.

The large stranger passes us ladies a drink while the two men beside him each grab a cup. After green eyes grabs his cup, he tips the waiter who promptly asks would we like anything else. Once we all agree on another set of shots, as well as a round of beers, he takes offers from the growing crowd around us, determined to fill the tray to capacity for his next trip.

Cordie impatiently whines, “What are we toasting to?”

“We gotta toast to somethin’?” the shorter male green eyes brought back with him questions.

“It’s basic party rules.” Her smile transitions to flirtatious. “This isn’t your first time at one, is it?”

“No. This ain’t my first rodeo, little lady.”

His accent seems to excite her.

Unlike the green eyed stranger I can’t wait to hear speak again, his is too thick. Too strong. Borderline over the top. It actually makes perfect sense she finds it sexy. She loves the dramatic. I’d be willing to bet their personality analysis would pair them nicely.

Ugh. Definitely need to get drunk and fast.

“How about to new friends?” green eyes suggests sweetly at the same time he drops his stare down to me. He steals a brief moment to drink in my light cocoa brown skin and curves cleverly hidden in a soft pink, off the shoulder boho maxi dress before continuing. “Any woman who is kind enough to guard my space when she doesn’t know me from Adam is the type of person I want to be friends with.”

My smile unconsciously grows.

“The fact that she’s beautiful is jus’ a bonus.”

His compliment cracks my jaw.

“To new friends!” the male eye fucking Cordie announces.

“To new friends!” we echo and tap our plastic cups.

A pleased hum escapes as the whiskey soothes my overly stimulated senses.

How can someone whose name I don’t even know have my entire body on edge? How is it that just casually admiring the way his muscles fill out his white t-shirt has me regretting not hiding a pocket vibrator in my luggage? Am I really this pathetic? Has it really been that long, or is he rocking some sort of new age cologne that puts women in a trance?

Another wave of his scent invades my system unapologetically.

Why does he smell so goddamn good? And how does a person get the smell of crisp, clean freshness from the shower with just the lingering hint of fresh wood? Or fresh forest? Is that a real thing? From what research has shown, most men pick certain scents to present their personality without speaking. If a woman’s attracted to their aroma, she is more likely to accept their initial advances. It’s a mindless mating tactic. A very old but still effective one.

“My apologies,” green eyes states, gaze now locked with mine again. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Carly.”

“And now the beauty has a name,” he practically whispers.

I helplessly grin again.

It’s not like this is the first man on the planet to call me beautiful. Hell, since we’ve been here I’ve had a number of them stop me to declare it. They were clearly intoxicated, so their advances were brushed away by a polite smile, but he’s not. Or at least I don’t think he is. His gaze is glazed in lucidity and his body language is screaming he’s sincere. Regardless if he is or isn’t inebriated, there’s something about the accentuation of the word that brings a new level of intensity to it. He says it like it’s carved in stone. Like it’s an absolute truth he’d risk his entire life to prove….

Wow. Maybe I am still a little buzzed after all. Clearly, I’m reading too much into this.

“I’m Dustin.” He swiftly removes the cup from my possession, stacks it with his, and offers me his free hand. Our grips clasp together and the haze in my mind thickens. We shake much too slow for much too long. His touch is rough, calloused fingers and a coarse palm, but the delicateness he demonstrates has my mind reeling over the idea that maybe I’m what’s making the giant gentle. When we finally do drop hands my heart sinks at the emptiness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Why do I wanna say it feels like destiny to meet him?

Ah, fuck me. Why am I even entertaining the idea of such? I work in the industry of “love”. I know how fleeting the notion is. I know fate is just a fancy word for finding something that fits into your present that you don’t mind seeing a future with. I know how feelings fade, but the idea of financial security doesn’t. Why am I pretending fairytales are real and love is something other than a contract signed by both parties?

“This is my older brother, Cody.” His head motion towards the individual who is the same height and looks eerily similar to him. Afterwards, he repeats the action the other direction. “That’s his best friend, Sam.”

Both men extend their hands for me to shake. Once we have, I announce, “The gorgeous redhead is my best friend Cordelia, and the gorgeous brunette is my best friend Audrey.”

“You boys can call me Cordie.”

The urge to retort something snarky takes me by surprise.

Cordie and I have been friends for about five years. She’s never given the false impression she was anyone other than who she is. She’s always sported the page six girl with the cover in mind attitude. First to order the shots and last to finish the bottle. She’s the poster woman for fun, carefreeness, and irresponsibility. She sleeps with who she wants, when she wants, where she wants, with absolutely no concern for any contenders who are interested in the same man she is. If this were our usual girl’s night out, I wouldn’t think twice about the way she’s attempting to dangle herself, so the question is why am I now? Why am I annoyed with the way she’s staring at them too hard? Why am I jealous of the way her porcelain skin looks perfect in the glow of the stage lights? Why am I hating the fact I don’t gorge on brightly colored salads or join trendy diets to lose the extra thickness sitting a little too comfortably on my hips? Why do I loathe knowing I’m in a competition I’m most likely going to lose?

“This your first time here?” Sam asks our group.

Audrey instantly looks for clarification. “To South Haven Island or Beers & Babes Beach Bash?”

It’s clear his initial question wasn’t meant to be more than a conversation starter by his response. “Both?”

Audrey’s mouth moves to reply when Cordie snakes in front of her to take over the line of communication. “The Bash, yeah. I’m constantly on this island. There are always celebrities that hang out here.”

My eyes roll of their own accord.

There’s a gentle, unexpected tug on my hand that darts my attention to Dustin who has eased himself away from typhoon Cordie. I step closer to him, guilt gnawing at me for leaving Audrey on the sidelines to fend for herself.

“What about you?” Dustin drops the plastic cups in a passing server’s trash bag. “Is this your first time to South Haven Island?”

“No. I have a few clients here.”

“Clients,” he repeats the word with lifted eyebrows. “Sounds like you’re an important lady.”

“Extremely,” I flirt.

Dustin gives his scruff covered jaw a nervous scratch. “You’re probably out of my league, huh?”

The racing of my words syncs to the one in my chest. “Wouldn’t count you out of the running.”

He lightly chuckles, the slight shyness, completely unexpected.

Never in a million years would I guess a big, burly man like him would ever possess a shy bone in his too buff for his own good body. Why on earth would he?! He’s built for durability, not just for model show. He’s got a smile that sets more than my panties on fire and eyes that literally glow. Add those things to the accent and you’ve got a recipe no straight woman can resist. Most men with this powerhouse combination would make a sport of reminding women how amazing they are, yet Dustin is standing here almost desperate to know he even qualifies for a chance. Don’t get me wrong. Confidence is sexy, but unanticipated humility? That’s like hitting the motherlode of attractiveness. At least to me.

“What about you?” I push a fallen strand behind my ear. “First time to the island?”

Dustin quickly nods. “Yeah. The Bash, too. It was a Christmas gift from my brother. He scrimped and saved to get us our room and tickets to this thing. I paid for our flights. We’re from Texas.”

“Explains the sexy accent.”

A coat of crimson stains his cheeks. “You think it’s sexy?”

The waiter’s return interrupts my prepared response.

Probably for the best. It was creeping towards Cordie level of brazen, which shouldn’t be a big deal since we’re on vacation, but something in the pit of my stomach doesn’t want this thing between Dustin and I to end here.

God, what thing?! We just met, and I’m acting like I’ve already got names for our future children picked out. If I got wind of a client behaving like this, I would give them an earful about rational responses and remind them to read the social cues. He’s friendly flirting, not preparing a proposal.

With beers comfortably in one hand, we raise our other, preparing to down another round of shots as a group.

This time it’s Sam who declares what to acknowledge. “To new adventures!”

Our cups tap together again, and I toss back the shot, secretly praying it gives the same moment of reprieve the last one did.

Cody collectively gathers the empty cups, unbothered by the chore.

My guess is he’s grateful to be occupied with something other than Cordie’s sexual, self-centered stories. She’s not throwing herself at him, which means she’s ignoring him because she spotted the wedding band on his hand. Married men aren’t typically her thing when there are available ones with less stress floating around.

I glance over my shoulder to see Audrey’s sulking demeanor.

She needed this vacation the most. Having your ex-husband decide to marry his new wife the weekend after you’re officially divorced is devastating enough without sprinkling on the fact it’s happening in your hometown, in front of a fraction of your family because they’ve been friends for generations, and you were the pair who legally linked them together. This trip is supposed to help her forget about the younger, fresh out of college version of herself her ex is marrying, not grow the feeling of being unwanted.

“Audrey, right?” Dustin calls to her as if he had been eavesdropping on my thoughts.

Her brown eyes widen in thrill, igniting the irrational urge to declare childish dibs on the hunk beside me.

Unlike Cordie who spends a ridiculous amount of money and energy staying supermodel trim, Audrey is naturally thin. Her slightly above average height keeps her out of heels; though the way she typically hides her slim figure in loose jeans and Anime t-shirts, heels don’t exactly fit the ensemble. She’s got light brown hair, dark brown eyes, and the girl next door vibe men are anxious to marry. She’s polite. Too caring at times. Too forgiving at others. Her heart’s always in the right place, which makes her a total catch, something she’s managed to forget over the past couple of years.

“Yeah,” she enthusiastically answers, pulling her brown hair to the side of her slender face. “And it’s Dustin?”

“Yeah.”

The simple exchange sends my plastic cup soaring to my lips in desperate need of a distraction.

His tone remains casual. “This your first Cooper Copeland concert?”

“No. My fourth.”

“Mine too!”

I have another swig of beer.

They’re probably better matched than him and I would ever be. Chances are he’s from a small town just like her. He’s probably very family-oriented in the same aspect she is. They’re both country music fans who, I’d be willing to bet a hundred bucks, want the same type of barn yard wedding with the same trite song playing. Yep. I should do the right thing for both of them and step out of this equation. Even if it doesn’t end in muddy boots and marriage, at least it’ll get her mind off of her ex.

Just as I prepare to slide out of the way, Dustin’s beer free hand lightly brushes my arm. “What about you, Carly? This your first Cooper Copeland concert?”

“It is.” I push down the moan that tried to tie itself to my answer. “My first country music concert period.”

He grows an inquisitive look. “Not a fan?”

“New fan!” Audrey blurts out. “Over the past year I’ve introduced her to Cooper, Blake Shelton, Ben Mar, and a few of the classics, like Locke and Hank Williams Jr.”

Introduced is a gross misuse of the word. Tortured. She tortured me by playing them over and over again between bottles of wine and heartbreaking hysterical cries about her ex. Eventually, I got past them just being background noise and found appreciation for most of it.

“I grew up listenin’ to Locke and Hank!” His excitement meets hers, nudging me once again to step away from the situation. “’Red Dirt Road’ and ‘Muddy Creek Getaway’, all-time favorites from Locke!”

“Oh my God! Mine too!”

“Cody played me ‘There’s a Tear in My Beer’ first time I got dumped.”

“Most definitely an appropriate break up song.”

My body motions to move when his hand gently grasps my elbow to stop me. “You know any of those songs?”

“Um…no.”

His smirk tilts. “You will.”

Unsure of how to reply, I keep my lips pressed tightly together, and my tumbling thoughts tucked away.

“But you do like Cooper?” Dustin’s question is directed at me.

“She definitely likes the looks of him,” Audrey giggles between sips of her beer.

The alcohol must be kicking in for her. She gets too informative and too honest when liquor is flowing through her. This is rarely beneficial, though it did pave a path for some hilarious bedroom confessions about her ex. I’ll never be able to hear baby goats the same way again.

Dustin’s jaw clenches yet he forces himself to smile. “Is that why you’re here?”

“It helps,” I tease, loving the flare his glare takes. “But no. I really do like his music. He has a way of making you feel welcomed to country living even if you’ve never stepped foot outside the city.”

His grin grows soft. “I like that.”

Our stares unite and our bodies helplessly gravitate towards one another.

What is happening to me? Why is his accent turning me into some adolescent school girl with no regard for rational or responsible actions? It is blatantly obvious the appropriate pairing here! Why can’t I just bow out? Why can’t I make a clever excuse to bail so they can actually flirt? Why do I loathe the idea of them being together like Dustin and I are lovers from another lifetime finally finding each other again?

“Why don’t you ladies slip in front of us? Give you a better view of the show.” Dustin’s offer makes Audrey squeal. “It’s not that much closer, but at least with us behind you there’s no reason to worry about people tryin’ to push past y’all to get a better view.”

There’s no time for a rebuttal. The crowd bursts into screams as Cooper’s band begins to take the stage. Audrey and Cordie bolt into the small empty space in front of the guys and join the audience who are frantically waving their cup free hands around. I slink directly in front of him, glance over my shoulder and mouth, “Thank you.”

His smile threatens to stop my heart beat. He mouths, “You’re welcome.”

Opening notes to one of Cooper’s biggest hits pours out of the speakers and my eyes dart to the stage where the cowboy Casanova himself is strolling out. We all give him the loudest, most enthusiastic welcome we possibly can. He snatches the microphone off the stand, and the pyrotechnics add to the impact of the first words that fly off his tongue. The energy of the crowd instantly amplifies as he makes his way around the edges of the stage to touch fans’ hands. Anxious to capture this moment, I pull my phone out of my dress pocket, and use my free hand to pull up the camera. I do everything in my power to grab a few shots of Cooper worth keeping. Unfortunately, being almost half a foot shorter than most of the crowd in front of me proves to be problematic even with a zoom button.

Defeat whispers convincingly for me to concede, yet Dustin’s voice against my ear banishes it. “Want me to take the picture?”

I glance up at him and eagerly nod.

He winks, hands me his half empty cup, and takes my phone.

Effortlessly, he clicks the button over and over again, trapping these precious memories at the same time thoughtlessly creating more. He lowers the device back to me and swipes back through them looking for verification that they meet my standards. After receiving a nod, he drops one hand to my hip while using the other to gracefully slide my phone back into my pocket. The feeling of his body pressed firmly against mine, shuts my eyes and gives me an entire new reason to hum. Despite the fact one of the most popular names in current country music is crooning, commanding the crowd’s complete attention, I give mine to the irresistible man still holding onto me.

Hot breath hits my ear for a second time. “I won’t let go if you don’t want me to, baby.”

My heavy lids lift to allow our gazes to lock.

His stare is swarming with hope and hints of apprehension.

I make matches for a living. I know when two people should explore their connection and when it would be wiser for both to look elsewhere. I’ve spent years honing my natural ability to read a situation before it’s had time to start and perfecting the ability to calculate the probabilities on paper as well. I’ve been trained to connect the dots. Link the obvious. Prevent people from wasting their time on pointless conquests, yet here I am, ignoring the signs that point our lives in opposite directions. Turning a blind eye to the facts and figures that have easily been outlined to demonstrate what a disaster even something like a temporary fling would be. Why can’t I shake this feeling that for the first time in my entire life love isn’t nearly as neat and tidy as I’ve been making it? Why is something right underneath the surface of my skin screaming at the top of its lungs “this man belongs to me”?

With a sweet smirk, I offer him back his beer and provide my answer by simply leaning into his hold.

Dustin doesn’t hesitate to grip me a bit tighter.

Cooper’s first song ends and he cruises right into another well-known radio hit. The entire audience sings along at the top of its lungs. Cordie, Audrey, and I sassily sing to one another. We dance. We drink. We dance harder. Cooper drowns us in devotion to his craft and not a single person in the audience dares to resist. For almost two hours, we’re completely lost to the upbeat rhythms and swaying to the sultry tunes. While the girls and I occasionally take selfies to further commemorate our vacation, they are the only moments Dustin and I are parted. It’s as if our bodies took a silent vow of commitment to each other. Like lingering too far for too long would leave us both feeling forsaken. By the time Cooper’s introducing his final song of the night, both of Dustin’s arms are wound snuggly around my lower waist. His decision to ditch drinking beer to be closer to me was made much earlier in the performance. The possessive gesture not only turned me on, it finally got the matchmaker in me to shut the fuck up.

“Considerin’ the fact it’s almost midnight, I can’t think of a more perfect song to play,” Cooper states into his microphone at the same time he begins to strum the opening notes.

My eyes immediately dart to Audrey who looks on the verge of tears. Her neck is stiff. Her shoulders suspended in a somber slump. Her cup free fingers are folded firmly together. Seeing her body language do its best to shield her from displaying the pending pain pulls at my conscience.

We should go. If we bail now it might save her some heartache or, at the very least, allow her to bawl in peace.

I stretch my hand out and squeeze hers. “Wanna go? Get ahead of the crowd?”

Her mouth twitches, ready to shout the obvious answer when it abruptly stops. She drags her eyes across the sight of me and slowly shakes her head. A mixture of longing and love fill her gaze before she directs her attention back to Cooper.

She’s trying to give me what I was trying to give her earlier. Happiness. Even if it’s brief. This is what real best friends do. We lie on the sword so someone we love can live to have something we know they deserve. Many people think sacrifice of the sort is saved only for blood bonded relationships. They’re wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Wanna go?” Cordie repeats the offer with a concerned expression.

My smile grows in size at Cordie’s selfless act.

She says the wrong shit about ninety-eight percent of the time, but occasionally, she flashes her humanity, reminding us she cares on a deeper level. That we matter to her as much as she matters to us.

Audrey shakes her head again, eyes still pinned on Cooper.

I rest my hands on top of Dustin’s arms, determined to enjoy each and every second possible. Someone else is surrendering their sanity simply to allow me a few more minutes in what feels like a newly discovered sanctuary, which means I need to appreciate it. He flexes tighter, equally as driven to idealize what we both know are our last moments together.

Truthfully? We’re basically on borrowed time. Time granted to live outside the societal norms a real relationship is pressured to function under. Right now, we’re both away from home, though him much further than me. Under actual circumstances a romance between us couldn’t exist. We’re from completely different lifestyles. I don’t need a long drawn out conversation to draw that conclusion. The faded jeans from over washing means he’s frugal, only buying things like clothes when they’re absolutely needed. His gaudy oversized belt buckle is homage to the place he’ll most likely never leave for anything other than a vacation. The worn out shoes announce he’s on his feet more than he is ever off of them. And those obvious indications are just the tip of the iceberg. From the short dialog we did exchange, we’re unlikely to have anything to talk about other than country music. The grim reality is… outside of this little beautiful bubble we’ve lived in for two hours, nothing between us could actually be sustainable. Sadly, toe curling attraction isn’t enough to make even a valid first date work.

Our hips sway together and I continue to secretly wish this could last forever.

All of a sudden a fat rain drop lands between our closely lingering faces.

Cooper chuckles into the microphone, “And now we have the rain! Sing along with me!”

Dustin ignores the singer’s instructions. Instead he knocks his lips against mine stealing the shallow breath I had in the process. Regardless of the rain shower now washing over us, my entire body is set aflame. Overwhelming heat sears me from the inside out, turning my bones to ashes. Dustin’s hand grazes my cheek as our mouths slowly drag apart to grant our tongues a taste. The physical impact is small, but the emotional one is powerful enough to fracture my soul. Our tongues roll around and around until my lungs are begging for benevolence in the form of a single breath.

The crowd’s eruption into shouts and applause separates our mouths but not our bodies. We remain absolutely still, attached in an inexplicable way on an unexpected level.

What if I’m wrong? What if this isn’t just an escape from the tribulations of a mundane existence? What if…what if this is the opportunity for a chance to have so much more?