tall form showcases loads of lean muscle everywhere. Biceps, shoulders, forearms, calves, quads. And abs. Oh dear Lord, those abs. In a soft whisper, I count them to myself. When I get to eight, I have to suppress a shiver, though inside I’m simmering with heat. I admit, I’m spoiled living on Maui. Six-pack sightings are an almost-everyday occurrence. Much of the population is fit and active, resulting in a higher than average number of hard bodies.
But this knockout has them all beat with his glorious eight-pack. If I were a pious woman, I’d run to the nearest church and offer a silent prayer of thanks for the visual.
My greedy eyes finally allow for a blink. I’m grateful the lenses on my sunglasses are reflective. If I weren’t shielded by these giant black orbs, my wide-eyed stare would be visible from outer space.
Halfway up the beach, he pauses to take a deep breath, bracing his hands on his thighs—and I’m treated to a crystal clear view of the goods. Air lodges in my throat before I let out a boom of a cough. I clamp my hand over my mouth, hoping he can’t hear me over the crashing waves.
I take it back. This sight is something to thank the heavens for. This man, this marble statue brought to life, is also blessed with one hell of a package. Holy hot damn indeed.
With each step forward he takes, my heart races. Be cool, I silently order to myself. Slowly turn your head away and stare straight ahead at the golden sand, at the perfect blue sea, at the radiant horizon ahead of you. Quit gawking like a perv!
From the direction he’s walking, he’s headed to Big Beach . . . which means he’ll have to walk right in front of me.
I divert my gaze to my toes, which are buried in the sand in front of me. I will not be that gross creeper who violates the unspoken code of conduct on Little Beach by staring too long. I breathe, close my eyes, and count to ten.
And when I look up, Mr. Hot Damn is standing right in front of me, his towel draped over his naughty bits.
When I focus on his face, I choke for real this time.
It’s Callum.
Chapter 4
Endless water droplets dot his gently tanned skin, making him glisten under the early-morning sunlight.
“You.” He sounds almost angry.
I wait for him to say more, but all that follows is silence.
“Um, yes,” I stammer. I sound like a confused child.
I scour my brain for anything else to say, but nothing else comes to me. All I can do is open and close my mouth a handful of times. All the while Callum’s laser-focused eyes drill invisible holes through me.
My body is on fire when I realize how creepy I must look in this moment. There Callum was, enjoying a predawn swim at a secluded beach, only to stumble upon his food truck nemesis eye-sexing him from just a few feet away. Judging by the angry wrinkle of his eyebrows, the way he refuses to break his scowl even to blink, the way he won’t even speak to me, he is not amused. He is not impressed. He is simply exasperated by the sight of me.
Jumping up, I grab my towel and jog away, tripping all the way up and down the rocky hill to Big Beach. I run the distance back to my car and speed to the commercial kitchen to prep for the day’s lunch service. By the time I finish loading the truck, I’m still huffing every breath. My heart is still racing. My body still feels like it’s engulfed in flames.
Callum employed a genius new battle tactic this morning, and I bet he didn’t even realize it. Everything in me screams retreat, to drive my food truck into the ocean, just so I’ll never have to face him ever again. Somehow, I properly insert the key into the ignition and navigate myself all the way back to my spot on Makena Road without crashing.
I’m not so lucky the rest of the day though. Mom texts me a heartfelt thank-you after reading my apology note on the kitchen table, but I’m too flustered to form words, so all I send back is a thumbs-up emoji and a heart. When I open for lunch, I proceed to screw up the first several orders. And then I burn a half dozen dishes. Focus is impossible after an epic distraction like that.