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13

FEELING SEEN

T he Past

The Creep: You’d be just perfect, if only you were wearing a black bra.

And also, I want to paint your nails.

I glance self-consciously at the grey and white bra strap that’s escaped the confines of my tank top. His words make me feel a bit strange, like I’m almost but not quite up to his standards, somehow, because of these fatal bra and nail flaws.

That he knows just the trick to make me into his perfect type of woman.

The Creep: I’m very good at painting nails, you know

I have a very steady hand.

I can’t wait to paint yours.

A little shiver runs through me. I can’t quite put my finger on it. His words remind me of a crime show I recently watched where the killer painted the fingernails and toenails of his victims each a different color. I shake it off. Clearly, I’ve been watching way too much trash TV if a minor comment about my own fingernails has me thinking of that.

I glance down at them. I don’t bite them anymore, but I do have a tendency to pick at them when I’m nervous or stressed, and the move to a new city has definitely had me in that state. A few of them are jagged, and the pink nail polish I applied a couple of weeks ago has well and truly started to wear. There are spots where it’s fully worn away. No wonder he noticed.

He’s just trying to help me to be my best self.

But he’s eyeing me in a way that seems.. I don’t know… like I’m a doll that he wants to dress up or something.

It’s not a look I’ve seen before.

Sure, I’ve had plenty of guys stare at me in that hungry way that means they want to fuck. Where they’re barely containing their lust-filled drool.

And he’s kind of doing that, but this is different somehow.

The Present

Based on his dating app pictures—angled selfies and slightly awkward poses, I figure there’s a ninety-eight percent chance that Timmy’s a few inches shorter than me. I generally do prefer taller guys, as superficial as it sounds. And I have a feeling that this guy will lean heavily on personality rather than height.

So when this six-foot-two guy appears at my side, I almost lose my shit. His profile was so detailed, and yet somehow he missed this important information.

And wow—he’s adorable. That easy grin, the glimmer of humor in his sparkling eyes, and the way his messy, sun-bleached hair sits just right under his cap—he screams effortless surfer charm. There’s an energy, a sense of ease about him, like someone who belongs to the ocean, radiating warmth and carefree vibes.

His voice is deep, smooth and surfery, with just the right touch of mischief that makes me want to hear everything he has to say. I have to stop myself from swooning.

I feel like I’ve been transported to one of those perfect tropical island sunset scenes where everything is mellow and golden, and life feels simple.

“You look even better than your photos,” he says, flashing that cheeky grin again. I swear my knees wobble.

He’s so attentive, making solid eye contact. As a high-functioning autistic person, my ex had real trouble making and maintaining eye contact, so Timmy’s attention feels extra intense.

We chat easily as I enjoy my second cocktail, the sweet and tart pineapple notes mingling with the buzz of excitement that’s starting to hum inside me. He nurses a dragon fruit cider, swirling the can lazily between his large hands.

“You know,” he says, “I actually designed packaging for this cider company.”

He pulls out his phone and shows me a vibrant design—a mix of swirling waves, oranges and teals, and bold typography. “They didn’t end up using it, though. Creative differences.”

“Oh wow! You’re really talented!” I exclaim, genuinely impressed.

I knew he’d studied graphic design, but up until now, he’d mainly talked about his condo renovation work and vehicle detailing.

To me, being creative as an artist is one of the sexiest things.

There’s something magnetic about the way he lights up when talking about his art. He tells me about winning an art school contest, and how his professors believed he had endless potential.

We’re two artists, two creators vibing over our shared passion—his art and my books—and it feels electric. The way he listens, really listens, makes me feel seen. His curiosity is genuine.

He asks about my writing process, plots, characters, what I’m working on now, my backlist, what I love about writing, my cover designs. I pull up a few of my covers and he looks at me like I’m his new favorite person. I get the rare thrill that my work actually matters to someone else.

“I think it’s soooo cool that you’re a writer,” he says, his grin infectious. “And dark romance ? That’s sexy as hell.”

Given my ex’s total lack of interest in my writing, this kind of attention makes me feel like I’m winning the lottery. I’ve spent so long craving this kind of connection—someone who not only likes me but also finds my passion for my writing attractive.

When it’s time to pay, the barback hands Timmy the bill with an exaggerated wink in my direction.

Timmy’s smile falters as he sees the total. “Fifty-eight dollars for a cider?” he mutters.

“Oh, I put her caesar salad and two cocktails on there as well. Is that an issue?” She grins unapologetically.

Timmy shifts in his seat, clearly flustered. “Oh, uh… okay…”

I feel a twinge of guilt. “I can get it,” I offer. “I wasn’t expecting you to pay for my meal or the drinks I had before you got here.”

“No, no,” he says, taking a deep breath, collecting himself. “But you’re getting the next one.”

My stomach flutters at the idea of a second date. Despite the awkwardness, there’s something endearing about his determination to push past it. He isn’t trying to impress me with flashy spending—just genuine kindness.

I feel a tension, like this might be all the money he has in his account or something. But he’s told me he’s working, and he’s even called me from his job. So I know he has one. Renovating condos can't pay too badly. And when he’s not doing that, he’s detailing vehicles. Says he gets several hundred dollars for a couple of hours of work. Maybe it’s the day before payday. I don’t want to come off as judgmental.

“So,” he asks, leaning in. “What do you want to do now?”

“I mean, I’m getting kind of tired again,” I admit, though the buzz from the cocktails has given me a third wind. “But we could go somewhere else for a bit.”

I could stay up for another couple of hours if the conversation remains this good.

He smiles knowingly. “Let’s go for a walk,” he says. “Come. There’s this place I know that has a killer view—and pool tables, if you’re up for a game.”

“Well, that sounds fun,” I reply, smiling back.

He takes my hand, and I feel an unexpected rush of comfort. His hand is large, warm and strong. And it’s not just the touch—it’s the way he holds mine, like he’s already decided he’ll look out for me.

We step into the elevator, and we ride it down to street level, where the salty breeze wraps around us. He guides me down the street, the ocean breeze ruffling his T-shirt, and I feel like I’ve found my own sexy surfer tour guide—someone who knows Sunset Cay like the back of his hand. As we walk, he points out little nooks and hidden spots. Some of his stories are a little crazy, but hey, it’s nice to be with someone so carefree. So in tune with nature and the island. I laugh, charmed by his buoyant story-telling.

We walk through a few of the larger resort hotels, and he shows me a place with pool tables and shuffleboard as well as a koi pond. On the way, he plucks a plumeria from a nearby tree, spinning it in his fingers, and tucks it behind my ear.

I smile at him. Nobody has ever put a flower behind my ear before, or at least not since I was a kid.

“Beautiful,” he says, appreciating his work. “Just like you.”

I beam, feeling warmth bloom in my chest. Nobody else has ever done something so sweet, so simple and genuine, for me, not like this.

“Oh shit,” he says, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “I made you a lei, too. As a welcome gift. But I left it in the fridge. But this looks really pretty with your gorgeous hair. And I’ll bring the lei to you another time.” He pulls out his phone and shows me a picture of the lei, fashioned out of twisted ti leaves. I’ve never seen one like this.

How cute and thoughtful! Nobody has ever made me anything like a lei before. In fact, I don’t think a guy I’ve been seeing has ever made me… well, anything.

Maybe dinner, sure, but nothing creative or arty.

But Timmy seems different. Full of surprises. And he keeps making me laugh. There’s something about his sense of humor that’s cheeky and a little dark, which matches well with mine.

I laugh. “Okay, I’ll imagine that you brought the lei. Thank you, it’s beautiful. It’s the thought that counts.”

He grins at me. “You’re so welcome. Next time, I promise.”

We wander through more resort hotels, past koi ponds where fat, colorful fish glide lazily through the water, and over wooden bridges strung with soft, glowing lights. The night feels alive—full of possibilities.

He hands me his drink bottle. “Want some? It’s tequila mixed with an energy drink.”

My favorite–well, the tequila part, anyway. I smile and take a sip, wondering if I mentioned it to him before, or if it’s just another uncanny thing we have in common.

The pool tables are occupied, so we head out and he takes me to a bar on the main strip. We order mojitos, and then he leads me outside where we can see people wandering around on the street below. I love people-watching, and I love this particular beach. This feels like heaven. We talk about nothing and everything, just relaxing in each other’s company. I feel utterly content.

He leans in close, his sun-kissed arm pressed against mine. He grows quiet for a moment, and his fingers trace a slow, deliberate path along my forearm.

“Your freckles,” he whispers, his voice low and genuine, “are the most fucking adorable thing I’ve ever seen. I mean it. They really are. I’m not blowing smoke up your ass. I really fucking love them. ”

I feel a spark, something I haven’t felt in a long time. Like I’m not just seen, but cherished. I look up at him and smile. He grins back, and his eyes are kind and sparkling.

His gaze makes me feel beautiful in a way I didn’t know I craved.

We’ve only just met, but it feels like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be—here, on this island with this unexpected, wonderful person who looks at me like I just might be his dream girl.

And it feels amazing.