California Gurls (feat. Snoop Dogg)—Katy Perry

For some unknown reason, Grayson Hawthorne found himself in the Golden State.

California.

The former heir apparent to the Hawthorne estate, with his pressed collars and perfect posture, somehow ended up with sand between his toes and the taste of sea salt on his lips.

He’d traveled the world—coastlines in Greece, the rain-slick streets of Paris, rooftops in Tokyo—but nothing came close to the Golden Coast. California was chaotic, loud, unapologetically bright. He should’ve hated it. He didn’t.

And for another unknown reason—maybe it was the Daisy Dukes, maybe it was the sun-kissed skin—Grayson had fallen.

Hard.

For a California girl.

You were simply unforgettable.

Toned, tan, fit and ready.

You never minded sand in your stilettos or wind in your hair.

You drove a Jeep with the doors off, a pair of oversized sunglasses perched on your sunlit nose, music always blaring and lips always glossed. You practically lived on the beach—chasing waves by day, dancing barefoot under string lights by night.

You were the exact opposite of everything Grayson expected.

And yet, somehow, exactly what he needed.

He didn’t understand how someone like you could exist so effortlessly in a world that felt like quicksand to him.

He was all structure. You were all spontaneity. He lived for order. You thrived in chaos. But every time he looked at you—laughing with your feet in the Pacific or singing off-key with sea salt tangled in your hair—he felt the foundation of who he thought he was begin to shift.

He wasn’t supposed to stay.

But something about the way your sunburned fingers reached for his made it hard to leave.