Think you have on enough sunblock?”

The paste-covered human next to me glares from beneath her sunglasses and sun hat, as well as an inch of sun block that has yet to be rubbed into her body. It’s like she’s making a seven-layer dip of only her skin and sunscreen.

“I’ll have you know, skin cancer is not to be toyed with. It’s a serious thing.”

“Well aware, that’s why I’m wearing sunscreen, but it’s okay to show a little skin.”

“Better to be safe than sorry.” She caps off her bottle and sets it inside the pink and green Vera Bradley bag next to her. “Butterscotch candy?” she offers, the crinkling of the wrappers mixing with the ocean waves crashing a few feet away, as well as the playful sounds of kids around us.

“I’m good. Thanks.” I down half of my water bottle and let the sun warm me up to my very core. “My body is not used to this kind of heat.” I can feel myself sweating in areas I was unaware had sweat glands.

“Yes, a far cry from Maine for sure. But the sun is lovely, isn’t it?” Victoria stretches her lily-white arms and tries to soak in the rays . . . which is impossible with the amount of cream covering her skin. “So what was last night’s phone call all about? You interrupted a very intriguing dream of mine.”

“Sorry.” I cringe, knowing how much Victoria relies on her dreams for her writing. She always tells me her best ideas come while she’s sleeping. “I met this guy yesterday—”

“Already scouring the streets, are we?” There is a light, playful hint in Vitoria’s voice.

“Ha, no, believe me, meeting this guy was all by chance.”

“Ah, there you two are.” Zoey’s voice startles us from behind. “I’ve been texting you. The hubs went on some early morning fishing trip and has been gone all morning, and I just rolled out of bed looking for coffee.” She takes a giant sip from a Frappuccino in her hand. “Ah, that feels good. What are we talking about?” She flops a giant beach bag next to me and pulls a lounge chair through the sand to saddle up close to mine.

Keeping her eyes closed, the brim of her hat covering her face, Victoria says, “Rylee was just telling me about a man she’s seeing.”

“Say what?” Zoey cranes her neck to the side like it’s made of elastic.

“I’m not seeing him. Jesus, Victoria. We just, hung out . . .”

“Why did you trail off like that? Did you guys have sex last night?”

“I think they did. She called me for a recommendation. I told the guy to run for his life.”

Zoey clutches her chest and laughs entirely too loud. “You did not.”

“Unfortunately she did,” I mumble, pulling my legs into my chest.

More laughter, from both of them now. Can you hear my heavy sigh?

“Oh that’s so great. So what happened after you failed to get a recommendation?” Zoey pauses and then whacks my arm. “Hey, why didn’t you call me? Am I not good enough to give you a sex-a-mendation?”

“I tried! You answered the phone asking about scissoring with Art.”

Zoey nods, the corner of her lips turns down in agreement. “It’s frightening how accurate that is. Okay, so I was hyper-focused on my own pleasure. What happened after Victoria cock-blocked you?”

Sitting up some more and crossing my legs, I say, “For the record, I wasn’t looking for a sex-a-mendation. I was just trying to prove I’m not a psycho killer.”

“Smart man.” Zoey nods and sips on her drink.

“Well, you know after he saw me get barfed on, and then after the whole naked thing, he came up to me—”

“Wait.” Zoey and Victoria both sit up and lean over to look at me. “What naked thing?”

“I don’t really want to get into it. Let’s just say there was a mix-up with hotel rooms, and I wanted to get the puke smell off me.”

“I’m so confused right now,” Victoria says. “I thought there was no sex.”

“There wasn’t. We didn’t have sex or even kiss. He just saw me naked.”

“Talking about me?” A deep voice pulls our eyes off each other and toward the man standing in front of us wearing a pair of low-slung black board shorts and nothing else besides a long necklace around his neck that’s made of leather and a small gold key. His tan skin glistens under the sun, the contours of each and every one of his muscles flexing tightly with every move. His smile stretches across his face, his eyes are full of intrigue, and his hair begs for me to run my hand over the short strands.

Turning toward me, thumb pointed at Beck, Zoey asks, “Is this the guy you wanted the sex-a-mendation for?”

Want a sure-fire way to make me blush? This, this right here will do it.

My cheeks heat up, my ears burning with embarrassment.

“Sex-a-mendation, huh?” Beck scratches the side of his jaw, his eyes trained on mine. “I wasn’t aware that’s what we were calling friends for.”

“It wasn’t. There was no sex involved. None.” I can feel my forehead start to sweat. Damn sun. “Just making sure we weren’t going to murder each other, that’s all. Sex is off the table. There will be no sex.”

“No? That’s a damn shame.” Beck smiles and then leans over to shake Zoey and Victoria’s hands. “Ladies, nice to meet you, I’m Beck.” Zoey and Victoria introduce themselves, their mouths agape like fishes out of water as they stare at the mound of muscles in front of them. Hell, I don’t blame them.

“Beck, wow even your name is hot.” Zoey pokes me in the side with her elbow. “You should use that name in one of your novels.”

“I agree.” Beck wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe he could convince the heroine to go sightseeing with him in the book.”

“Ooo, that’s a good idea.” Zoey picks up my bag and puts it on my lap. “Rylee was just leaving to go tour the island.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, she was,” Victoria chimes in. Traitor. “She wants to rent a Vespa. She tried to get me to get on one but I refused. You seem like a gentleman who knows how to handle that kind of machinery. Why don’t you go with her?”

“Beautiful idea. Grand actually,” Zoey adds, and after digging through her purse, lifts a five-dollar bill to the sky and waves it. “Ice cream is on me.”

I eye the bill, hating both my friends right now. “We’re going to need more than five dollars.”

“Here.” Victoria tosses a twenty at me. “Have fun.”

“See, all set. Just tuck those bills in your bra with your license and go have fun.” Zoey starts pushing me off the edge off my lounge. “Go on. Sightsee with the hunk. Thank us later.”

“You know he’s standing right here,” I grit out in utter embarrassment.

“Oh, don’t mind me.” Beck rocks on his heels and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m just here for the free ice cream and great company.”

“How can you turn down free ice cream?” Zoey now waves both bills in front of me, a knowing look on her face.

Sighing, I snag the money from her, stuff it in my bra top along with my phone, room key, and ID and stand from my lounge chair. I point at Victoria and say, “You’re in charge of my bag.” Turning toward Beck, I say, “You’re in charge of renting the Vespa, come on.” I grab him by the hand and pull him toward Duval Street.

Thankfully I’m wearing a little black cover up over my white bikini because driving around in nothing but a bathing suit isn’t on my to-do list today. Although, it seems like it’s on Beck’s.

“You know, you don’t have to sprint. We can walk leisurely.”

Noticing my giant and very awkward steps propelling us forward at an alarming pace, I slow down and straighten myself. “Eh, sorry. Just wanted to get out of there before those two said anything else embarrassing.”

Beck nudges me with his shoulder. “Oh come on, they weren’t that bad. I liked them.”

“Yeah, because they practically pushed me into your arms.”

“Into my arms? I would have remembered that.” His smile is devilish and I’m very much aware of how that little tilt of his lips affects me.

“Don’t be cheesy.”

“Not cheesy when it’s the truth.” Nudging me again, he says, “And what’s with this tough front you’re putting on? I catch you talking about our night and now you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me? That’s not the truth, right?”

Man, is he upfront. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man call me out like that before. I should have known after one look at Beck that he was going to be different than I’m used to.

Letting out a long breath, I turn toward him, stopping him on the sidewalk and say, “That’s not the truth. I’m just . . . aware of our situation, and it makes me nervous.”

“Aware of our situation. What does that mean?” He takes a step forward, closing an immense amount of distance between us.

“You know.” I gesture between us, my nerves jumping. “This, uh, attraction.”

“What about it?” He places his hand on my hip, and legit, my mouth goes dry.

It’s just a hand on my hip. It’s not like he stuck his hand down the back of my swimsuit and started massaging my ass. No, it’s a hand to the hip, but with the way he so powerfully grips me, and his unwavering stare, he has my body tingling, anticipating so much more.

Wanting to be honest, since he gets to the point, I say, “I’m not looking for anything serious, or to start anything with anyone. I’m here to write, to be immersed in love, and then be on my merry way. That’s all.”

A larger smile splits his lips. “Sounds like a plan, but I see some holes in it I would like to fill.”

“Beck—”

He places his finger over my lips, shushing me before I can protest. “Listen, Rylee. I didn’t come here to fall in love. I came to have a good time and live in the moment. I find you sexy as hell, interesting, and someone I want to spend some island time with. I’m not looking for anything serious either, but to hell if I’m going to take you as my wedding date and not spend some time with you beforehand.”

I snort, just like last night and quickly cover my nose. How grossly unattractive. When I glance at Beck, he doesn’t seem to think so from the heated look in his eyes.

“You want to spend some time with your wedding date, huh?”

He nods. “You got it, Saucy.”

I press my lips together, trying to mull this over. “Nothing serious. Just fun?”

“Living in the moment is what I like to call it. Saying yes, rather than no.”

I can jump on board with that. It might be good for me actually, to step outside of my little box I like to bury myself in, and actually experience life with nothing holding me back.

It almost seems . . . freeing.

Before the worrisome side of my brain kicks in, I say, “I would love to live in the moment with you. But no strings attached, right?”

“None. Just the memories of two wedding crashers and the remnants of an island tan.”

It’s my turn to smile. “Then what are we waiting for? It’s time to see what this two-by-four island is all about.”

Beck links my hand with his. “That’s the girl I was looking for.”

* * *

You’re kidding, right?” Beck stares me down, disbelief in his eyes.

“Dead serious.”

Pulling me away from the counter, from the prying eyes of the rental worker, he says, “We’re not sharing a Vespa, and if we did, you sure as hell wouldn’t be the one driving.”

Hand on my hip, I reply, “And why the hell not?”

“Uh, so many reasons.”

“Name them.” I challenge him.

“Well, for one I have more experience. I own and drive a motorcycle.” Of course. I could have easily guessed that from the way Beck carries himself. “Also, I’m much bigger than you. Bigger in the front to cushion any blow we might have.”

“That’s a lie. No way that’s a thing.”

“Well, it is in my head.”

I can tell he’s not going to back down on this, but too bad, I’m just as stubborn.

“I’m driving.”

“Fine, then we’ll get two Vespas.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Then we won’t be able to talk to each other. Plus it’s a waste. We could easily get the two-seater and pay less as well.”

“You’re not driving us.”

“I’m driving.”

“No, you’re not.” He matches his hands on his hips to mine.

“Yes, I am.”

Stewart, the man in charge of the rentals clears his throat, drawing our attention. “Can I make a suggestion since it seems like you two are having a hard time deciding who’s going to drive?”

An outsider. Hmm, he might be partial. “Yes, Stewart, we would be delighted to hear your suggestion.” I turn toward him, interested in solving this little dispute.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a quarter and says, “Flip a coin to decide.” Duh, that was easy.

“Brilliant idea.” I snag the coin from Stewart and hold it up. “Would you like to call it, Beck, or shall I?”

“We are not flipping a coin to decide.” Beck tosses his ID on the counter and says, “I’m driving.”

Stewart, the beautifully hairy man takes one look at the ID in front of him and then folds his arms over his chest. “I believe the lady wants to flip a coin.”

“Yeah, Beck, the lady wants to flip a coin.” I stand there in my black cover-up, at least eight inches shorter than Beck, chest puffed, and putting up one hell of a fight.

Eyeing me, Beck asks, “You’re not going to back down, are you?”

“Nope.”

“But you could kill us.”

I shrug. “What happened to living in the moment? Here’s your moment, Beck, flip a coin and decide your fate.”

Sighing heavily and running a hand through his short strands, Beck says, “I’ll call it in the air.”

Giddy, I flip the coin and Beck calls out, “Heads.” I catch the coin and flip it over to the back of my other hand. Beck, Stewart, and I all lean forward, eyes trained on the fate of the toss.

With a touch of flair, I lift my hand and reveal the coin.

“It’s tails,” Stewart declares with far too much excitement for being a third party in this little disagreement. “She’s driving, dude. I’ll take your ID, Rylee.”

Feeling like I won the lottery, I hand over my ID and lean on the counter while I smile all too brightly at Beck, who seems to be . . . yup, grinding his teeth. He’s not happy, and for some reason, I really like seeing that.

Tapping his cheek, I say, “Just think of it this way. You get to hold on to me. Now that’s something to look forward to.”

Bending toward me, Beck whispers in my ear. “Damn right I do, and if my hands accidentally rub against those sweet tits of yours, then so be it.”

Cue gasp and beet-red face.

Damn him!

* * *

You have to ease into the brakes, or else we’re going to fly over the handle bars.”

“It’s more fun this way.” I hit the brakes at a stop light, jerking the Vespa forward and causing Beck to grunt behind me.

“Woman, as much fun as you think it is to crash my cock into your backside, we’re going to have a serious problem if you continue to do that.”

From over my shoulder, I ask, “Getting excited, Beck?”

His jaw ticks, his hands on his thighs, the strain in his neck evident. “Don’t play with me, Saucy.”

“Isn’t that what this is all about? Playing?” The light turns green and I slam on the gas pedal, sending us into a speedy fifteen miles per hour down the colorful road of Duval Street where flags hang from buildings and palm trees offer a brief shade to passersby.

Wrapping his arms around my waist, his entire chest eclipses my back as he brings his head forward and speaks into my ear. “Are you going to be a tease this entire time?”

My inner goddess smiles. “Count on it.”

His chuckle rumbles against my back. “Fair enough, but be warned, two can play at that game.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

I direct the Vespa down the road, the wind breezing through my hair, Beck’s hands roaming from my stomach to my thighs, depending on how close he’s leaning against me. I can only imagine how he must look behind me, a massively attractive and larger-than-life man gripping me, his arms flexing under the beaming sun. From the stares we’re getting from tourists on the streets, I’m going to guess he either looks ridiculous, or the women who have their mouths open as we pass by are a tiny bit jealous.

Hell, I don’t blame them.

Believe me when I say this, I don’t do “non-committal flings” often, or ever for that matter, but there’s something about Beck and his live life motto that has me throwing caution to the wind and experiencing something new, something crazy out of the box for me, something I know will stick with me for years to come.

So why the hell not just experience rather than worry?

Maybe it will spark my imagination.

Maybe this little break from reality is just what I need.

“Where we going, speedy?” Beck grips my hips, pulling my attention from another red light.

“Uh, straight?”

“Straight?” He laughs. “Well, if you keep going straight you’re going to end up in the ocean. I don’t know about you, but drowning this rental wasn’t on my list of things to do today.”

Such a smart-ass. “Okay, then what was on your list?”

“Let’s go to Mallory Square. It’s up there on the left.” He directs me with a point of his finger toward a parking lot.

Making the turn, I rumble our bike over the uneven concrete of the road and park between a red Ford Mustang convertible and a black Hummer. I give our “whip” a once-over and talk over my shoulder to Beck. “We look a little ridiculous right now.”

“Slightly. But what’s really going to get us into some trouble is people thinking this spot is empty only to realize you parked this hot two-wheeler here instead.”

“Ugh, I hate people like us.”

“I’m partial to park whatever you want, wherever you want.” Beck hops off the back of the Vespa and holds his hand out to me.

“That’s because you drive a motorcycle. You’re the person everyone hates.”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t care less what everyone thinks. Plus, I park in the back to avoid a kick to my bike from angry car drivers.”

“Ah, smart.” After Beck helps me off, he pays for parking and tucks the slip in a crack near the speedometer.

“Come on, Saucy.” Saucy. No idea why he’s sticking with that, but it’s kinda cute. He takes my hand in his and guides me past a brick house labeled restroom that smells like a place to dispose of excrements, and down a little narrow path where we come across a bunch of little kiosks selling your typical touristy island souvenirs. “Are you a souvenir kind of girl?”

“Sometimes, depends on the souvenir. It has to be good, something I wouldn’t be able to get anywhere else, and I’m not talking about your typical location-branded shirt or mug. It has to be super unique.”

“Something off the wall?”

“Exactly.”

Beck stops in front of a kiosk full of musical instruments particular to the island like bongos, maracas, and didgeridoos. Not that a didgeridoo is necessarily an island instrument but contrary to popular belief, I don’t see didgeridoos sold everywhere. Beck picks up a rainmaker and turns it upside down so the beans start bouncing off the pins inside the tube. “Tell me, what unique souvenirs have you bought before?”

Okay, let’s pause for a second. You know how I said I only buy a souvenir if it’s super unique? That’s true, but what I left out is the massive collection of a certain souvenir that I have at home. And when I say massive collection, I mean a good shelf full of a particular item I seem to find everywhere I go, or that my readers have purchased for me.

Interested? Want to know what it is?

You’re thinking silver spoons, aren’t you? Tiny silver spoons labeled with each location, right? Even though they’re cute, that’s not it.

Not spoons, not mugs, not keychains, or magnets. No, this is unique, a special find you can only locate in a quirky store.

And there is always one quirky store in a touristy town, and you just have to find it. It’s the store that carries those dolls that come alive at night, but also Christmas ornaments, local hot sauce, kitchy oven mitts, and . . . hunks.

Yes, hunks.

How do I explain this? They are little glass or plastic man figurines turned into something special like an ornament, or a bottle opener, of a wine glass ornament. They are always shirtless, hunky, and so goddamn amazing that whenever I see one, I add them to my collection. It’s an immediate purchase for me.

My favorite of these glorious gems is my collection of hunky mermen ornaments. You would think, wow, there mustn’t be much variety of those. Oh by golly, are you wrong. I don’t think I will ever own all of them and it makes me sad. I want all the hunky mermen. Is that too much to ask?

Sigh.

“Why are you smirking over there?” Beck pokes me with his rainmaker.

“Oh, uh, just having a good time, you know, making rain.” I shake a rainmaker and put it back in the bin.

“Yeah, that’s not the truth. There’s a souvenir you collect that you’re not telling me about.”

Is this man a mind reader? God, he’s too damn perceptive. I have a feeling there won’t be much I’ll be able to get past him over the next few days. None of my ex-boyfriends have been particularly perceptive, so to them, I appear to be an open book. They don’t know there has been so much I’ve never bothered to share.

“Maybe,” I say coyly while walking over to the next kiosk that has woodcarvings. I pick one up and admire the craftsmanship.

“And are you going to tell me what this souvenir is?”

“Nope.”

“Then how the hell am I supposed to help you find it?”

I turn toward him, putting the woodcarving back in place. “Oh Beck. I don’t search out the souvenir, the souvenir finds me.”

“Bullshit, you’re looking for it right now, aren’t you?”

Yes.

“No. If my special souvenir is here, it will be kismet if we meet up.”

Beck shakes his head and walks me toward a shell shop. “I don’t believe that one bit. You’re on the prowl. I can feel it. You’re searching, but what could it be?”

“You’re never going to guess. Believe me. This isn’t your typical souvenir.”

“You’ve made that point. Don’t worry, my mind is set on unique, out-of-the-box objects like this.” He picks up a ball cap that has a helicopter on the top. Placing the hat on his head—entirely too large for the child’s headwear—he spins the helicopter and exudes that devastating charm of his. “You collect these hats, don’t you? You have at least fifty of these that you line up along a stretch of your hallway and try to spin them all at the same time.”

Hands on hips, I cock my head to the side. “Do you really think I have time to do such a thing?”

Unapologetically he shrugs. “Hey, I don’t know what you do with your personal time.”

I snag the hat from his head and flip it back into its box. “Not that.”

“All right.” Picking up a conch shell, he brings it to his ear and says, “Shells seem too basic to collect. Unless”—his eyes light up with humor—“you collect dick-shaped shells. That’s unique and a very hard find. That takes some examining.”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “No dick-shaped shell collection, although, now you have me thinking I probably should start collecting them.” I peer my head around. “See any?”

“Not yet, but if I do, you can bet that pretty ass of yours I’ll be the first to start that collection for you.”

“Ooo, don’t get me excited, the disappointment would be heartbreaking.”

Beck studies me for a second, his hand rubbing against the light scruff on his chin. “You know, from your excitement over a dick-shaped seashell I’m going to guess your little souvenir has something to do with an adult souvenir, something . . . sexy perhaps?” There’s no way he’ll figure it out, at least I hope he doesn’t.

I give him no inclination to whether or not he’s right, instead, I turn my back and pick up a black pokey shell and examine it.

“Aha, I’m right, aren’t I?”

“No.” I try to hide my smile, but it’s impossible when Beck is standing next to me, playfully poking me in the side.

“Oh, I’m so right. Okay, sex souvenirs. Hmm, where do we find sex souvenirs?”

“Can you not say that so loud?” I pull on his hands that are rubbing together as he looks around.

“What? You don’t want people know you’re looking for sex souvenirs?”

Feeling my face getting red, once again I say, “I’m not. That’s something you made up.”

“No way. You are so looking for sex souvenirs.” A worker walks by us just in time for Beck to gather his attention. “Dear sir, would you mind helping us?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” the man replies in the deepest New York accent I’ve ever heard with a hint of drag queen. And from the Hawaiian shirt and heels he’s wearing I’m going to guess I’m right. I heard Key West is very gay friendly and has some of the best drag shows ever, and boy, does it seem like they were right. I’m intrigued.

“My friend over here, the cute one”—the worker eyes me up and down and smiles, hands clasped together at his chest—“is looking for a sex souvenir, do you have any?”

The man laughs as I feel a strong urge to climb into the shell I hold in the palm of my hand. I’m going to kill him.

“Oh honey, we don’t sell condoms here. Go to CVS around the corner.”

At my very blank and confused look, he adds, “Don’t you realize you’re supposed to be her sex souvenir?”

The man pats Beck on the back and walks away, or more like sashays. Spinning on his heel, Beck faces me and asks, “Am I your sex souvenir, and I don’t even know it? Oh my God, do you have a punch card or something, a form I have to fill out? Are you going to take a picture of me with a Polaroid camera, have me sign it, and then hang it with your other sex souvenirs?” He clasps his hand to his chest in disgust. “Am I merely here to be your . . . fuck toy?”

Oh for heaven’s sake!