American literature keeps me company as I lie on the couch and read. I have a few hours before Trace comes. Nerves jangle deep within my stomach; the butterflies are restless. His deep dark stare already entices me into submission. The book I am reading can’t hold my interest—my thoughts keep drifting to Trace.

Maxine comes strutting through the house as if she’s a runway model. This breaks me out of my reverie. She tosses her sunglasses onto the table and puts her big Prada purse on the couch. She comes from a wealthy family and has everything: designer bags, sunglasses, shoes, and nails. Yes, you heard that right—she has designer nails.

She also has supermodel looks, including long dark hair and gorgeous hazel-green eyes. People love to gawk at her. Sometimes even I catch myself staring at her beauty. Everyone who sees her wants her, but she is a handful. She is very meticulous and loves to throw temper tantrums. We work together, as her father wants her to learn responsibility, and the moment we met, we hit it off. She loves to talk and listening has always been my strong suit. Perfect match.

“Hey, chica, what’s up?” she says, flopping onto the couch and throwing her legs up over the side.

“Hey, just reading. What are you doing?” I ask, closing the book and setting it on the table.

She smiles. “Don’t you have a date tonight with Trace?” She draws out each word as if she is taunting me.

“Yes.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“I don’t know. Probably what I have on. He said to dress casual.”

She glances at my khaki shorts and red baby-doll tee and scowls at the superhero graphic on the front. Then she throws her legs over the couch and plants her feet firmly on the ground. In one quick movement, she is standing. “Ugh, no way. You’re so not wearing that.” She grabs my hand and helps me off the couch.

“Why not?” I ask as I follow her lead to her room.

“I don’t care what that boy said. You are not showing up in that.” She points to my clothing and frowns once again.

“Well, what do you think I should wear?”

“Let’s go through my closet and find you something fabulous.” She opens her closet doors and clothes spill out. They are everywhere: hanging from hangers, thrown at the top shelf, puddling on the carpet. Scarves, hats, bags, and dresses are shoved in haphazardly, creating the biggest mess I have ever seen.

I gape. “How can you find anything in here, Max?”

“What?” She turns to look in the closet again. “Everything in here is organized.”

I stifle my laugh when I see she is serious. Not able to see an outfit so easily myself, I peer inside further as she thumbs through her clothes. When she spots a dress way in the back, she pulls out a light-blue halter-top sundress.

“Here, try this on.” She thrust the dress into my hands, and I grab it before it drops to the floor.

“This isn’t casual.”

“It is casual. This is Trace casual. You can’t show up in shorts and a stupid T-shirt. He won’t be impressed.”

A little offended by her comment, I take the dress and head into my bedroom.

I’m a little unsure about changing what I already have on. I mean, he did say “dress casual,” which I have. I take off my clothes anyway, though, and slide the dress over my body.

When I turn to the mirror, I am shocked by what I see. The dress is divine. It hugs and tugs at my curves perfectly.

Maxine barges in. “Do you have…?” Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen.

“What do you think?” I ask, rubbing my hands down the front of the dress.

“Damn, hooker, you look hot. The dress looks better on you than me.” She rushes over to stand side by side next to me. We stare at ourselves in the reflection.

“Do you really think this is okay?” I ask.

“Yes. Now how are you going to wear your hair? What shoes are you going to wear?” She places her hands on her hips, waiting for the answer. Shoes? Hair?

“I…I… don’t know.”

Throwing her head back in laughter, she casts me a mischievous smile. “I have just the thing.” She wiggles a finger to follow and heads back to her room.

With a few minutes to go until Trace is here, I look at myself once more in the mirror. My hair softly flows around my face in large curls. My makeup is light and casual. It’s great, but all of this hype has made me more nervous to see Trace.

The doorbell rings, and I hop at the sound. Before making my way to the door, I smile at Maxine and she gives me a wink. My fingers shake as I open the door to see Trace in khaki shorts and a red graphic T-shirt. What the heck? Well, I’m glad I changed, or we’d be wearing the same outfit.

“Wow, you lo… look amazing.” His deep, dark eyes look as if they might pop out of his head. He even seems kind of nervous as he stands there, which calms me.

“Thanks. So, are you ready?” I ask, shutting the door behind me.

“Yeah, you bet.” He heads to his car, and I follow alongside.

“Great, let’s plow.” I draw out the word plow as I quote one of my most favorite movies, Pretty in Pink.

He gives me a strange look and smiles. “Jon Cryer?”

“Wow, I’m impressed.”

“I have three older sisters.”

“Aww, did they make you watch a bunch of chick flicks growing up?” I smirk.

We walk to his car, and he opens the door for me. Impressive.

“So, where are you taking me?” I ask, curiosity brimming. I climb inside and, just before he shuts the door, he leans his head in and says, “It’s a surprise.” Then he shuts the door and walks around the car. I lean over the seat to unlock his side.

Opening the door, he beams at me. “Thanks.”

He puts the car in gear, and we head through the streets.

We drive east while we chit-chat about school. When he parks the car, we’re at the marina where I can see all the boats. Well, boats is an understatement; yachts is the precise word. These yachts are breathtaking, and I glance at Trace. His smile grows as he gets out of his car.

“Are we going on one of these?” I ask, stepping out into the bright sun.

Before we set foot on the docks, he stops by a small shack and talks to a Spanish man who gives him a key.

White yachts line the wooden decks for as far as the eye can see. The warm wind sways the masts, and I smell the misty scent of the harbor. Trace takes my hand and leads me out onto one of the wooden docks. I stare at each boat as we walk past. There are some smaller boats and then a few bigger boats. Many are grander than any boat I have ever seen. I tense when he stops in front of one of the big ones. It’s white with blue trim and a massive deck with two chairs next to the leather steering wheel. It probably isn’t called a steering wheel and most likely has some fancy nautical term, but I have never been on a yacht or boat before.

Trace drops my hand as he jumps onto the boat. Like a fish out of water, I watch awkwardly, though he makes it look effortless.

“Are we really taking this thing out? I have never done this.”

“It’ll be fun. Give me your hand.” He reaches his hand out and grabs mine. I step over and land my feet onto the deck.

“Wow, this is really nice,” I say as he takes me on a tour of the ship.

He shows me the engines and the cabin down below. We walk around the galley, which is a fancy term for the kitchen.

He shows me the master bedroom that is complete with a queen-sized bed, and my palms begin to sweat. We walk back out onto the deck as he heads to the front to prepare for our trip.

He unfastens the ropes that hold the yacht to the dock and starts the engine. Should I ask for a life vest?

We motor onto the Intercoastal Waterway, passing all the million-dollar homes, and I picture Trace growing up here. Most likely a spoiled rich kid, but he doesn’t act it. It delights me how down-to-earth he is.

We make our way into the vast ocean as the sun sets. Watching the shoreline get further and further away soothes my soul as I snuggle up next to Trace.

I look to him as he maneuvers the boat, watching him closely. His arms are like those of a well-trained athlete who has spent many hours doing all kinds of vigorous sport-related activities. His dark hair blows in the wind, and the wildness of it makes my heart flip in my chest. When he smiles, his teeth are so straight and white, he looks like a dentist’s wet dream. But his eyes are the best part about him: so deep and alluring, they can make anyone bow to their power.

I grab a hair tie from around my wrist and pull my hair back out of my face as I smile at Trace.

The yacht slows, and we idle in the ocean. He turns and takes my hand, and my heart flutters.

Out on the deck, he leads me to a table. “Have a seat and I’ll get dinner.” He motions to a chair and then rushes down into the galley to bring up the feast he has prepared. The stars make their appearance as we dine on fresh Mahi-Mahi with a gourmet rice pilaf all topped off with a mouth-watering citrus pesto. He laughs about how he cooked the food, but then finally confesses that he had it prepared especially for us.

While we eat, he produces a champagne bottle and two flutes. The cork pops in his expert hands, and he pours us each a drink.

Handing me a glass, I shake my head and laugh. “Wow, you sure are trying hard to impress me.”

He stops pouring and sets the champagne bottle down, stalking over to me. Then he places both hands on either side of me, resting on the arms of my chair. Leaning in close, super-close, he whispers softly, “I wouldn’t say that. I would just say that I am trying.”

Aww, love, hearts, swoon. Stars float through my head as I remind my girly parts to calm down.

His lips are so close to mine, I have to take a deep breath and smile. His dark, bottomless eyes dumbfound me—they seem to have no beginning and no end.

A panty-melting smile breaks from his lips, and I utter, “Oh.”

He walks back to his seat and raises his glass. “To a new beginning.”

I glance sideways at him as I clink my glass with his. “Cheers.”

I sip on the bubbly fizz and am so happy I’m here tonight. Letting the bubbles calm my butterflies, I smile at how relaxed I am. The thought of dating had scared me before, but now I feel secure with Trace.

“So, back to corny eighties chick flicks, which is your favorite?” I ask, placing my glass on the table.

He snaps his head back in laughter. “Oh, you can’t be serious.” He pops his knuckles as he watches me.

“I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.” I say playfully in a sing-song voice.

“No, I want to know what your favorite horror movie is,” he says, taking another sip of his drink.

“Okay, you first.”

He mulls it over, rubbing his hands together. “I think I would say, umm, Footloose.”

I laugh. “No way. So, have you always liked men?”

“I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” He smiles, rubbing his fingers through his straight black hair.

“Oh no, I would never. I mean every guy’s favorite movie is Footloose.”

I hum the theme song when he cuts in. “I never said it was my favorite movie, sweetheart.” His eyes grow serious. “And I can prove my love for women if you’d like me to show you.” He runs his finger down his jaw, suggestively.

My insides become a complete pile of goo, and I blink rapidly, trying to pick up my jaw off the floor and recover. “Okay, my turn,” I sputter as quickly as possible.

“Right, what is your favorite horror movie?” he asks, leaning back in the chair and stretching his arms behind his head.

I gulp, trying to remember my favorite horror flicks. But truth be told I hate horror movies. They frighten me. But I pick a movie at random. “Friday the 13^th.”

He leans closer, removing his arms from their resting place. “No it’s not.” His eyes penetrate right into the lying part of my brain and pull out my fib as if he had the blueprints.

“Well, to be honest, I don’t care for horror movies,” I confess.

“Too scary?”

“Yes, I can’t sleep at night after watching one.”

He smiles and leans even closer as he grabs the champagne glass. “I can help keep you safe.”

I roll my eyes. “Typical guy comment.”

He purses his lips and looks a little confused. “What?”

“That is a typical guy comment, when the girl says ‘I get scared watching scary movies,’ the big guy leans over and says, ‘Don’t worry, baby, I’ll keep you safe.’ It is just a reason for guys to put their paws all over girls.” I bat my eyelashes at him and smile.

“Abso-fucking-lutely. That’s why we take girls to see scary movies.” He takes a gulp of his drink and sets the glass back down on the table.

I pick up my glass and salute him. “So I figured men out then, huh?”

“Well, that is just one of our many schemes.” He smiles as I take a sip of my drink, then grabs the bottle and tops off both our glasses.

“Schemes, huh? I’m sure you wrote the book.” I tip my glass to him and smile.

“You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”

“I just know how you are with women.” I stiffen a little as the conversation takes a turn.

He runs the glass over his lips as he peruses my body. His eyes start on my legs and linger around my chest, which is trying hard not to suffocate from getting an inadequate amount of air. To say he is affecting me is an understatement; this boy is making me downright hot. I almost want to start fanning myself but don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He shakes his head as he lowers his eyes to the floor. With a wicked smirk, he lifts his head to meet my gaze. “And what way is that?”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, you know, slam, bam, thank you ma’am.”

He erupts into a full, hearty laugh that makes his shoulders bob up and down. He leans forward and slaps his knee.

I laugh with him as he leans in closer. “You really are quite adorable.” He pecks a kiss on my cheek and then sits back in his seat. Raising a hand to my face, I rub along my cheek. In one quick jerk of my other hand, I have that glass of champagne to my lips and guzzle it down.

“Thank you.” I set the glass down, and he lifts the bottle to pour more.

“Well, you are,” he says, as he chuckles nervously.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask, lifting the glass to him.

“Absolutely.” He raises the glass of liquid to his lips and begins to drink.

“No fucking?” I ask, smiling.

He spits out his champagne, spraying it onto the floor.

“What?” He laughs.

I giggle. “Well, you had said abso-fucking-lutely before. So, no fucking this time?”

He shakes his head. “You are too much.”

The bubbles from the champagne move through my veins and make me lightheaded. I set my glass down as Trace rises from his seat. “I’m gonna run down and see if I can’t find a little after-dinner snack.” He sets off, while I enjoy the night air. A few minutes later, he returns with a tray of crackers and various cheeses. As he sets it on the table, I grab a few crackers and take a bite.

He takes a seat, grabs a piece of cheese, and pops it into his mouth.

“Are you from Florida?” he asks, grabbing another piece of cheese.

“No, I’m not. I moved down here to go to school.”

He shakes a finger at me. “Ahh, there’s a story there. I can tell.”

I drop my eyes to the floor, avoiding his gaze and his truth-seeking eyes.

“No, not really,” I mumble.

“Vanessa, you don’t have to talk about it.” He reaches for my hand and places his hand over mine. The spark from the coffee shop comes back and travels up my spine.

“Let’s just say I’m happy I moved here.” I get lost in his eyes. Not wanting to reveal too much about my horrid past, I turn my head to watch the ocean water.

“Fair enough. I’m glad, too.” He gains my attention, and our eyes connect.

“You’re incorrigible.” I smirk.

“What are you going to school for?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Literature, poetry.” I sit higher with pride. Poetry is my soul mate and one reason for living. I love putting words together to express my feelings. I usually write a poem about everything.

“Poetry, hmmm. So there’s a secret diary full of poems?” He pops another piece of cheese into his mouth, and I grab another cracker.

“Maybe.” I lean closer, wondering how we got on this subject again.

“So maybe one day you can read me a poem.” His eyes are as wide as saucers, and he sticks out his lower lip. I so badly want to suck that lower lip. Not in a devouring, nasty kind of way, but in a sweet, “he turns me on” kind of way.

“Are you pouting?” I ask, snickering.

“I just want to ensure I get a poem read to me.”

“Okay, maybe one day,” I say, deflecting his request, which I don’t intend to fulfill. I mean, how can I?

“What do you write about?” he asks, rubbing his chin.

“Everything.” I raise a hand to my chest in a swoon-worthy fashion. I’m passionate about my poetry, and sometimes I almost get a little too excited.

His laughter stops and he looks straight through me with pure lust. “Have you ever written about me?”

I look up to the sky then again to the floor—anywhere but at him as he leans closer to me.

“You have, haven’t you?” He places his hand on my chin, directing my eyes to his.

My palms shake. How did we get on this subject? I want to jump off this boat and swim home at this very moment, but his hand on my chin keeps me focused.

“I can’t wait to hear this poem.”

“What, right now?” I whisper.

“Oh wait—you have it memorized?” He is relentless.

I let out a breath and nod my head yes.