Stray frisbee

The late morning sun spilled over the coast in golden waves, turning the sand hot enough to bite and the sea into a pane of sparkling glass. Emily lay beneath the angled shade of her umbrella, her towel stretched over soft dunes. The red bikini she wore clung too tightly to her hips and ribcage, its strings digging slightly where her curves had shifted since Chloe was born.

She adjusted her top—again—trying to ignore how it barely held her breasts now. Any shift, any breeze, and the triangle cups threatened to betray her. But part of her wasn’t entirely concerned. There had already been glances from passing joggers, the occasional double-take from teenage lifeguards.

Her body didn’t feel the same as it once had.

But the way people looked at her now… it made her wonder if she was more magnetic than ever.

A blur of movement caught her attention.

A frisbee arced into the air, wobbling, and came down hard—landing in the sand barely three feet from her towel.

She glanced up just as a tall, lean young man jogged toward it. He was maybe twenty, maybe younger, long limbs tanned and sinewy, shaggy blond hair tousled by wind and sweat. Board shorts clung to narrow hips. No shirt.

He bent to pick up the frisbee, giving her an unapologetic full view of his ass and legs.

Emily sipped from her water bottle and raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry about that,” he said, grinning down at her. His voice had that loose, confident rhythm of someone used to getting away with things.

“No damage done,” she replied, letting her eyes sweep over him once, slow and deliberate.

He smiled wider, sensing the spark. “Thought I overshot it, but I guess you were in the splash zone.”

His gaze dipped—to her chest, to her thighs, to the little knot in her bikini bottom barely holding tension. He didn’t even pretend not to look.

Emily stretched a little, arching her back just enough that the bikini top lifted a bit off her breastbone. “Looks like you made your mark.”

The corner of his mouth curled, tongue running briefly across his lower lip.

“I’m Dan,” he said, extending a hand.

She gave him a dry look. “You usually introduce yourself after throwing something at women?”

He laughed. “Only when they look like you.”

Emily smirked. Flattered. Amused. Heat curling just beneath her skin. She took his hand for the briefest moment—warm, callused, strong—then let it go.

He lingered for half a beat too long.

“Catch you later,” he said, voice lower now.

“Maybe.”

He turned, jogging back through the sand. She watched the shift of his shoulders, the tight flex of his calves, the curve of his ass under damp board shorts.

Just before he reached his friend—dark-haired, thicker build, watching from the water’s edge—Dan said something with a grin.

They both laughed.

Then they looked at her.

And they didn’t stop.