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“Nude beach …?”
“So forgive me for being a little curious. A lot curious, actually. Aren’t you worried a bite of my funnel cake will go straight to those nice exposed thighs of yours?”
He can’t seem to settle on a response. “You’re … You are really … really … annoyingly presumptuous. Do you really have such a low opinion of tourists?”
Tourists. He says the word like he isn’t one himself. “I just see what I see.”
“That funnel cake isn’t going to my thighs. It’s going straight into my mouth and nowhere else.”
He’s literally unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Intrigued doesn’t cover it. “Wow. You really don’t give a fuck, huh? You wanna marry me? Name’s Kent, by the way.” I give my nametag a little flick.
He lets out half a laugh of disbelief. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Kent Tyler. What’s your name? Will it sound weird with ‘Tyler’ at the end of it? Y’know, I’m also getting the impression you’re not at your best today. Something’s going on. I can tell. I got a sixth sense about these things. Get it from my mom. Did you get recently dumped?”
The question brings him pause. Then he scowls. “No.”
“Hmm. You sure? Something’s going on and I’ll figure it out.” I click my tongue at him as I turn over the cake in the oil and shake my head. “At least you don’t have that dorky mom-towel around your waist anymore.”
Now he downright gawks at me. “Mom-towel??”
“Look, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. The goods are good, if you catch what I’m saying. Why don’t you show off what you’ve got? Marriage offer is still on the table, by the way.”
I’m not sure whether he’s actually offended, totally baffled, or just enjoying the antagonizing banter, but he makes the hottest faces when he’s all worked up.
Especially when his eyes burn with indignation—like they are right now—and he snarls at me. “Listen, Kent. I know I don’t belong here, and I’m embracing that fact. I don’t need you to mock me with your stupid marriage proposals …”
“Hey now, I wasn’t mocking.”
“… and I don’t need you to ‘figure out’ anything about me. I just want to stuff my face and see whether the reviews were right—”
“You actually read reviews?”
“—about these funnel cakes being ‘finger-licking yummy’, and—”
“Nah, that’s just me.”
He eyes me. “You think awful highly about yourself.”
“You look better without it, by the way.”
“What?”
I poke my tongs at the cake in the oil. “The mom-towel. Just saying. You don’t need it. Daddy Nature took the god awful thing away for a reason. Do you notice anyone else around here wearing a towel?”
He props his elbows on the counter, leans forward, and lowers his voice. “Maybe I’m not like everyone else.”
Definitely already gotten that impression. Still, the corner of my lips curl up. I prop my free arm on the counter and lean closer, too. “Why do you say that?”
“Because unlike everyone else on that beach, you won’t find me on the cover of Gay Swimwear Weekly. My idea of a good time isn’t finding a hookup. Leave that to my annoyingly hot best friend putting on a suntan-lotion-rubbing show right now, who was a dorky shrimp growing up and is clearly compensating for lost time.” He grimaces at that. “Sorry. Overshare. Funnel cake looks done.”
With every answer he gives, the more questions I’ve got. Also, he’s right about the cake, but I don’t feel like I’m done with him just yet. “Needs a few more seconds. You sound miserable around your friend. Why’d you come here with him if you hate him so much?”
“I don’t hate him. I’m happy. I … totally want to be here.” He looks away.
“This town has a lot more to offer than just hot bods on the beach, y’know. We have a thriving art community. An art house cinema. Damn, missed my calling, should’ve been a tour guide. There’s a cool arcade across the street from the Elysian with several classics. A fair up on the north pier with a giant Ferris Wheel. I mean, if you want to be boring and stick around here on the tourist side of the island, sure, be my guest. Breezeway Point’s got a sort of charm … I guess.”
“That’s twice you’ve called me boring.”
“But if you want to see what Dreamwood Isle is really all about … I could show you some things.”
He looks at me. “Show me some things …?”
“Yeah. Show you around. Give you and your sunny-side-up eggs a reason to be less miserable.” I pull out the cake and let the oil drain off, toss it onto our signature basket lined with striped delicatessen paper, then shake some powdered sugar over it.
He pats his hips, then gasps. “All my money is with my friend. I didn’t … fuck, I’m so stupid … I didn’t bring my wallet. Can I get it and come back?”
