The way Gracyn converses with her entire body is fascinating. The way she laughs is just a little too loud. She comes across like she’s perfectly at ease, even when she’s hanging out with a jackass like me, like we’ve known each other for far longer than just the handful of hours we’ve spent together.

Our waitress has cleared our plates and brought a fresh bucket of beers and some key lime pie for us to share, sliding Gracyn and me from the early-bird hour well through the regular dinner rush.

Somewhere in the time we’ve spent getting to know the superficial things about each other, the sun has committed to setting, painting the sky an unbelievable palette of pinks and oranges and purples.

Far more importantly, the music piped in through the substandard speakers has been replaced with a small reggae band. Small but soulful, their beat undeniable and potent.

Savoring my last bite of the pie, I watch Gracyn from the corner of my eye, appreciating the way she welcomes the music, allowing it to move through her. Embraces it with the subtle motion of her head, the sway of her shoulders. The tapping of her purple-painted toes.

Pulling myself up from the chair, I excuse myself to the restroom and stop by the band on the way back to the table. “Hey, man, you got some of the classics on your set list?”

The front man fixes me with a look I can’t quite decipher. “Whatchu got in mind, man?”

“Uh, ‘Young Girl’ or something similar,” I say.

He pushes his dreads over his shoulder and narrows his eyes at me, making me second-guess my request.

“Your stuff is great. I just … you see that girl over there?”

He follows my nod to Gracyn, and a broad smile stretches across his face.

“I got you, man. I give you a little lead-in and get her warmed up, a’ight? Then, I slide into your beat.” He grasps my hand and pulls me in for the manly chest-bump-shoulder pat that tells me he’s truly got my back.

I grab a couple of shots of tequila from the bar and make my way back to the table.

Gracyn cranes her head back, raking her gaze up my chest. “If I shoot that, things could get out of hand.”

We’re both more than a few beers in, but she’s in no way shitty, and she’s certainly not hiding the fact that she’s checking me out.

“You just need to get up and move a little, work off some of the alcohol.” I hand her the shot, bracing for the jolt I know is coming as our fingers touch.

Her eyes widen, and her breath hitches. Just like mine does.

We each tip back the tiny glasses, emptying the golden fire down our throats, our focus never straying.

I reach for her hand, pulling her up out of the chair and into my chest. I can practically see the electricity crackling between us. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I pull her close to me while propelling us through the tightly arranged tables toward the minuscule dance floor.

My man in the band launches into a sultry island beat, and Gracyn starts moving her hips, her shoulders, that ass. She’s naturally fucking sexy. No pretense, no bullshit. Just pure and honest grace in motion.

The string lights crisscrossing overhead cast a soft glow on her sun-kissed skin, highlighting her delicate collarbone and illuminating the swell of her breasts, barely contained by the scraps of her bikini top. Her movements, almost serpentine, are consuming every one of my thoughts. She slides her hands into her hair, lifting it off the back of her neck. My hand presses firmly into her lower back, just above the swell of her ass, holding her against me. Her hips rock and sway, grinding through the rest of the song and solidly into the next.

And the next.

And the one after that.

The air is thick and sticky on the dance floor, bodies pressing in on one another. The sweet smell of alcohol and impending hook-ups swirl around us, and I swear to God, all kinds of bad decisions will be made tonight. But I don’t want that—not just that anyway.

Since I dragged Gracyn out on this dance floor, the only communication between us has been with our bodies. And, as good as that silent conversation is, I want to know even more about her. She’s smart and witty, but I want to know what she thinks about, what she reads, what she knows. All I have is a first name and a vague idea of where she’s going to school.

Most of what we’ve talked about has been centered around me—music and my on-hold college plans. My parents’ undeniable support of me checking out of my education to play in a bunch of beach bars and me hoping beyond the odds to get a break and make it. What dude doesn’t love being the center of a gorgeous girl’s attention?

But I want to know her deepest thoughts and the things she’s passionate about.

“You want to clear out of here? Grab a roadie and walk?” I lean in close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

The scent of coconuts and sweat, sweet and salty, invades my senses, and I have to force myself not to take just a tiny taste.

Gracyn presses in even closer to me and responds, “I do. Let me run to the restroom first. I’ll meet you at the stairs.” She slides her hands across my chest, her touch igniting a trail of desire across my skin, before she twists away from me and saunters toward the back of the bar.

It takes every last bit of concentration I have to make it across the floor to catch our waitress and pay the bill. A lot of talking myself down and some hopefully subtle adjustments along the way keep me from following her and finally tasting those lips.

Again, why didn’t I bring my phone with me?

The restroom grants me the respite I need to think clearly, away from Gavin’s intense eyes and oozing personality. Away from the pull I feel toward him.

Lis’ voice resonates through my head; her solid advice would be to leave things as they are. See if I see him again this week. Cows and free milk, you know.

But it’s spring break, and there’s something about this guy. I don’t want the night to end. Not yet.

I splash some cool water on my cheeks and assess the reflection that stares back at me in the ancient mirror hanging over the sink. The edges of it are black and spotted where the silver has oxidized, framing the hot mess I’ve melted into over the course of the day.

Maybe I should listen to Lis’ advice rattling around my head. I could have the hostess call me a cab and just go back to my condo. It would be the safe and conservative choice.

And how sick am I of being conservative?

Pulling, twisting, and piling, I contain my sweat-dampened hair at the nape of my neck with one of the bands that’s perpetually around my wrist. I try to tame a few pieces that won’t quite stay back, but it’s no use. Shaking the wayward strands off my forehead, I blow out a quick breath and chuckle softly, my mind made up.

Fuck conservative.

The crowded deck slows my progress, and for a single panicky moment, I’m afraid my opportunity to be a little reckless is gone. But, from the top of the stairs, I spot Gavin off to the right, phone in his hand.

He looks up from the screen, and a lazy smile stretches across his face. “You ready?”

Am I fucking ever.

“I thought about bailing, leaving you out here and taking off,” I sass.

His shorts stretch tight across his ass as he squats down to grab the plastic cups nestled into the sand by his feet. He pulls in a deep breath and nods, pouting his lips. “But you didn’t,” he states, not even gracing the comment with a question mark.

“I like talking to you. You’re”—I bob my head back and forth, thinking about how I want to say this—“not what I expected.”

“Seriously? I thought you were going to say you’ve got a thing for my ass.” And, with that, his smile is back.

He hands me a cup of frozen fruity goodness with, most likely, tequila. I take a giant swallow, and as the brain freeze stabs behind my right eye, I realize there’s a lot of tequila involved.