Her name was Savannah Beaumont, and if anyone asked, she’d tell them she deserved this vacation. Exams were over, her skincare routine was flawless, and Mexico had been calling her name. So, here she was—white linen shorts, a pink ruffle top that cost more than most people’s rent, and designer sunglasses perched on her head like a crown.

The streets of the village were charming—quaint, as she’d say. Her friends were laughing behind her, snapping selfies and talking about some guy they’d seen on the beach earlier.

And Savannah?

She was glowing. The sun adored her. The cobbled streets existed for her tan legs to strut on.

Then—

Wham.

Someone bumped into her.

Apples spilled across the street like a scene from a bad rom-com. Savannah stumbled back, catching herself, blinking.

The boy who’d hit her looked about her age. Tanned skin. Messy dark hair. Sharp jaw. Muscles under a worn shirt. His hands scrambled to pick up the apples, muttering a string of apologies in Spanish.

Her sunglasses slid down her nose as she stared.

“Dios, perdón, perdón, señorita—” he said again, cheeks red, still bent over the apples.

Savannah didn’t hear the words.

All she heard was him.

Her mouth fell open slightly.

Her friends were whispering something, but she couldn’t tear her eyes off him.

Tall. Broad shoulders. That boyish awkwardness. That voice.

It was like the universe had dropped the man of her dreams straight into her perfectly curated vacation.

And he smelled like cinnamon and sunshine.

Savannah Beaumont was done for.