The cocktail splashed across his lap before I could even apologize—orange and bourbon-soaked, like a drunken sunset—right onto the ridiculously hot older guy I’d been trying not to ogle.
His shirt darkened instantly. The Halekulani—the resort’s signature cocktail, all bourbon, pineapple juice, and a hint of lemon—bloomed across his chest and khaki shorts like a target I’d just painted on him.
Behind me, the open-air bar fell into a hush, like even the steel drum band needed a second to recover.
It looked like paradise in postcard form—palm-thatched roof, tiki torches flickering to life in the dusk, rattan chairs sinking into the sand. Vacationers sipped cocktails out of coconuts while fire dancers gathered near the shoreline, spinning torches like human lighthouses.
And there I was.
Standing in front of the hottest man I’d seen in… maybe ever.
Tan. Tall. Silver-haired with dark, fuck-me eyes. He wore an open white Guayabera shirt over a fitted tank top and those tailored shorts that somehow made his muscular thighs look obscene. Strong jaw. Prominent nose. Lips that I could suck on for a day.
The kind of man who looked like he belonged on a yacht with a cigar in one hand and my hair clenched in the other.
When he ordered a gin and tonic earlier, I’d braced for a British accent. But nope—New York. Rough, clipped, confident. The kind of voice that made me want to say yes, sir before I even knew what he was asking for.
No wedding ring. No tan line, either.
Unfortunately for me, he was also clearly older than me by at least fifteen years—so there was no way he’d be into me.
Panic bloomed in my chest.
My heart was sprinting. My face? Inferno. My hands? Useless. I was frozen between bolting into the ocean or crawling under the bar.
Why couldn’t I just hold onto a damn glass?
“Oh my God,” I breathed, already reaching for a napkin I didn’t know what to do with. “I’m so, so sorry—”
He glanced down, then slowly peeled his damp shirt away from his chest with a smirk, letting it fall back against his skin with a soft slap. His other hand brushed at the front of his shorts, right over his crotch, more for effect than actual drying.
“Damn,” he said, lips twitching. “Right in the lap. Bold move.”
I opened my mouth, mortified.
He cut in with a low, teasing chuckle. “Well, if you wanted my attention, sweetheart… you’ve got it.”
Sweetheart.
My legs nearly gave out.
I could barely form thoughts, let alone words. He wasn’t supposed to talk to me. Men like him didn’t talk to women like me—curvy, flustered, and alone at the bar with too many feelings and a drink I clearly wasn’t qualified to hold.
He turned to me with a smile that should be illegal, his dark eyes glittering with amusement. “Let’s call it… a creative icebreaker.”
What? Was he flirting? With me?
Lust is an ungainly beast. Especially when you’re on a solo vacation to recover from a breakup that did a number on your self-esteem.
Forget men, Ella. That’s why you’re here.
I forced a breath through my nose, straightened my spine, and reminded myself I’d handled grease fires, entitled food critics, and a sous chef who once stabbed himself in the hand mid-service.
I could handle this.
Even if this was a walking, talking, beachside fantasy soaked in my drink and currently watching me with the kind of smirk that could melt glass.
He extended a hand. “I’m Dominic. Or Dom, if you prefer. Most people who douse me in booze earn the privilege.”
Despite the mortification setting up camp in my chest, I found myself laughing. “Ella,” I said, already reaching for the club soda and salt from the bar like I’d done this a hundred times before. “Take off your shirt and I might be able to save it.”
That earned me a wicked grin. “Is that an invitation?”
I rolled my eyes, but my pulse was already misbehaving. “An invitation to save your shirt. Don’t get excited.”
Too late for me. I was already five fantasies deep.
He peeled off the linen button-down like it was no big deal, revealing a white tank stretched across sculpted pecs and strong arms that looked like they spent their free time lifting yachts. My throat went dry.
Definitely too late.
I focused on blotting the fabric. “Almost as good as new,” I muttered. “Though if I were you, I’d let the hotel dry-clean it.”
He held it up, inspecting the damage in the flickering firelight. “You’ve got a knack for managing chaos.”
I shrugged, trying to sound breezy even though my heart was currently doing parkour. “Occupational hazard.”
He leaned his elbow on the bar, watching me. “Lemme guess. Disaster response team?”
“Close.” I gave him a wink. “Chef.”
“Ah,” he said with a smile. “That explains it. You jumped when the fire dancers lit up.”
“I didn’t know they were fire dancers,” I huffed. “I thought they were just…regular dancers. In my world, surprise flames usually mean somebody’s eyebrows are about to go up in smoke.”
“Sounds like trauma,” he said, deadpan, then lifted two fingers to the bartender. “Another Halekulani for the lady. On my tab.”
“You really don’t have to—”
“I insist,” he said, all velvet and mischief. “Call it hazard pay.”
I glanced around, desperate for something—anything—to ground me. The torches cast dancing shadows across the bar, making everything look dreamlike and far too romantic. I tucked a loose curl behind my ear, willing my pulse to slow. “For the record… I usually drink my cocktails. Not throw them.”
Dom’s mouth curved, but his gaze stayed on the ocean. “Admit it. I make you nervous.”
My breath caught. God, he wasn’t even pretending not to know what he was doing.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t—not with heat climbing up my neck and his voice still curling around me like smoke. Not with the weight of his attention dragging my pulse into dangerous territory.
Thank God for the bartender, who slid a fresh Halekulani in front of me like a lifeline—tall, golden, dangerously pretty. But it smelled like poor decisions and great memories.
Dom raised his glass again, that smirk still tugging at the edge of his mouth. “To happy accidents?”
My fingers curled around the chilled glass. “You really don’t have to—”
“I know,” he said simply.
I clinked my glass to his. “Then… to happy accidents,” I murmured, and took a sip, letting the burn distract me from the heat simmering in my core.
He watched me like he wanted to peel off more than just the shirt I’d already ruined. Like he was seconds from leaning in and finding out exactly what I tasted like under this dress.
And God, I wanted him to.
I wanted to follow him back to his room, ride that rough New York accent all the way to the headboard, let his big hands remind me what it felt like to be touched like I mattered.
But I wasn’t ready.
Not for this kind of intimacy.
And I certainly wasn’t ready to let a stranger see me without my clothes on.
I wasn’t just bruised. I was broken in places I didn’t even know how to fix.
He was too sexy, too confident, too put-together—hell, too adult. He looked like he had stocks and property and a full set of matching luggage. Meanwhile, I had a carry-on full of emotional damage and a broken heart that still flinched whenever someone looked at me too closely.
I swallowed hard, setting my glass down gently on the bar.
“Thank you,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “For the drink. And for being… kind.”
His brow ticked up slightly. “Is that your way of saying goodnight?”
I bit my lip, pulse skittering. I couldn’t do this, something reckless and soul-deep. Something I couldn’t undo.
“I should go.”
I stood before I could change my mind.
I didn’t wait for him to respond. Just grabbed my bag and turned toward the beach, hoping the wind would cool my cheeks. The warm breeze licked up my bare legs, teasing me with the taste of what I was walking away from.
His gaze followed me. I felt it. Hot and lingering, like a promise. Or a dare.
But I kept walking.
I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.
If I had, I might’ve done something stupid—like stay.
