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Normally, my head would have been spinning right about now. Getting picked up by a nice-looking guy was my kryptonite. But now, strangely, I wasn’t feeling anything other than a mild curiosity to see this tattoo of his he had offered to show me. That was about it.
He lifted his black shirt, exposing his tanned lower back and the stamp-like inscription scrawled across it. I squinted. The lack of sensible overhead white lights made it hard to read.
"It says Stay Grounded." His voice was filled with a sense of pride that would have been more appropriate for announcing he’d won the Nobel Peace Prize, rather than just having a tattoo slapped on his skin.
"Oh, that's great," I said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as I could. I didn’t want to be rude, but I wasn’t feeling this situation at all.
"Yeah," he continued, "it helps me to, you know, stay grounded."
Oh dear.
I nodded politely, not sure how to respond to that. Then, it hit me. Nothing eased slightly drunken awkward talking to a stranger than some humor, right?
"If I got a tattoo"—I leaned in closer to him so he could hear me over the music—"it'd say Keep Flossing."
He cocked his head to the side before a look of recognition registered in his increasingly cloudy eyes. "Oh, I get it. You mean like something a gangsta would say?"
I shook my head. "No, not a gangsta. More like my dentist. He’s always chiding me for forgetting to floss my teeth."
The guy seemingly sobered up at my remark, throwing me a look that could best be described as something between blatant disgust and downright loathing. He walked away without saying a word.
Okay, so maybe I was no Tina Fey, but geez, I didn’t think my joke was that bad.
I shrugged as I walked toward the packed dance floor. Despite the awkwardness of that encounter, I couldn’t help but feel proud of myself. Leo’s advice was having a huge impact on me.
I never took the time to listen to my feelings, to what my heart was telling me. And noticing just how often I disregarded my own intuition was a little scary, but also a lot liberating. Because if I was aware that I was doing it, it meant that I could do something different.
And just like that, the music changed, and in front of me, two muscled, sweaty go-go dancers stepped off their dancing podiums. Tiny pinpricks of heat radiated across the surface of my skin.
Standing there in front of me—sweaty, breathing heavily, and looking all sorts of disheveled gorgeous—was none other than Cayman.
"Well, hello," he said in that fucking hot accent of his that literally made my knees buckle.
"Hello, yourself," I whipped back. "So...you’re a dancer?"
He smiled, but only a little, his eyes studying me intently. "Uh, yeah… Sorry, I didn’t tell you about it earlier."
I waved my hand in the air. "It’s no problem. I think it’s really cool, actually."
"You do?" There was a slight shakiness to his voice.
But as I nodded my reply, the wrinkle that had formed in his forehead disappeared and this time, his smile reached all the way up to his eyes.
"Let me get showered and changed quickly. Maybe we can get outta here and go for a walk on the beach?"
"That sounds looverly." I winced the second my butchered British pronunciation of lovely left my lips.
Cayman just smiled sweetly, patted me on the back, and whispered, "Can’t wait."
7
CAYMAN
I showered in record time in the staff change room, slugging on a pair of cargo shorts and a black tank top, before practically flying out the doors and into the arms of Mitchell, who was waiting for me by the entrance to the lobby.
The warmth of his body against mine felt so good. We pulled apart, and I explored his face. He looked slightly more serious at nighttime...and with clothes on, too. The bright blue of his shirt contrasted nicely with his light-brown eyes.
"Shall we go, then?" I asked.
