Trying to get golden skin before the end of the summer was hard, but not impossible, and you were determined to do it in style—this meant frequenting the luxurious beach club your parents paid for in the summers. It was quaint, and you thought you were looking sun-kissed—that is until you got sandblasted by a speedy ATV.

You shoot up straight, a furious look in your eyes, too busy wiping the sand out of your mouth and ears to even notice how it drenched your lunch and books. You were about to bark a reprimand at the lifeguard driving, a smirk on his face as he tousled his golden hair: “What, never got yer hands dirty before?” He said with a southern drawl that was thick as honey. “Someone had to roughen you up a bit.”

And if he weren’t so damn hot, you swear to yourself you would’ve had him fired on the spot.