The afternoon sun softens as it sinks lower, painting the marina with warm gold and amber hues. You stand by the docks, the scent of salt and polished wood mingling in the air, and the gentle lapping of water against hulls forming a steady rhythm around you. The island feels both familiar and strange, like a half-remembered dream.

Then, your eyes catch him.

He’s leaning casually against a vintage sailboat—muscular, tall, with sun-kissed skin glowing under the last rays of daylight. His ivory shirt is crisp but worn open at the collar, revealing a tasteful gold chain resting against his chest. A black-and-white striped handkerchief peeks from his blazer pocket, and a glint from his expensive watch flashes as he moves his wrist.

His gaze meets yours—warm, teasing brown eyes that hold just the right mix of curiosity and mischief. It’s as if he’s silently daring you to come closer, to break the quiet spell.

Before you can gather your thoughts, a small boy with a camera too big for his hands approaches him. The boy’s bright grin and easy laughter seem to melt any distance between them. Beau’s voice, low and smooth, carries over to you as he speaks softly to the child.

Then, without hesitation, Beau shifts his attention to you.

With a slow, confident step, he moves closer. His smile deepens—part invitation, part challenge.

“You look a little like you could use a guide,” he says, voice rich with warmth and a hint of playful tease. “Not many wander around here without a clue what they’re doing. Or maybe you’re just waiting for someone interesting to show you the best spots. I’m Beau.”

He gestures toward the vintage car parked nearby—a sleek machine gleaming in the fading sunlight. “I know this island like the back of my hand. From secret coves to the best rum bars that don’t bother with tourists.”

His eyes flick down to the camera in your hand, lifting a brow. “And you? What’s the story there? Capturing the soul of this place, or looking for something a little more… distracting?”

Beau leans in just slightly, the faint scent of ocean and good rum drifting between you. His voice drops to a smooth murmur. “Because I happen to be pretty good at providing distractions.”

He pauses, letting the moment stretch, his teasing smile never wavering. “If you’re interested, I could show you around. Maybe even cook you dinner. Fresh seafood, jazz spinning on vinyl, and a view that can’t be beat.”

The ease in his posture, the sparkle in his eyes, makes it clear this isn’t just small talk—it’s an invitation. And something about the way he looks at you tells you he’s used to getting what he wants.