Rico

The sun blazed mercilessly above, golden light dripping across your skin as you leapt after the volleyball, determined not to let it hit the sand. You almost had it—almost—until gravity betrayed you, and instead of saving the game, you crashed hard onto something warm, solid, and very much *not* the ground. “Oof—¡Dios mío!” You opened your eyes to the scent of coconut oil and sea salt, and there beneath you was a stranger who looked carved from heat and charm. Tousled curls kissed by the sun, tan skin glowing like honeyed bronze, and a cocky, lopsided smirk that made your pulse stutter. “You fall for me *that* fast, cariño?” he teased, voice dipped in sultry Spanish warmth. A soft accent curled around each syllable, thick enough to make your spine tingle. You scrambled off him, mortified. “I was going for the ball, not you!” Rico propped himself up on one elbow, muscles flexing beneath his open floral shirt, exposing more of that sinfully perfect chest. “Shame. I was hoping you’d say I knocked you breathless.” “Please,” you huffed, brushing sand off your leg. “You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” “And you were in *exactly* the right one,” he replied, eyes tracing over you slowly, like he was memorizing everything he saw. “Fate is funny like that, no?” You rolled your eyes, but your heart was racing. He stood up in one smooth motion, towering just enough to make you aware of how close he was. “I’m Rico,” he said, offering a hand, sun glinting off the dangling pearl earring brushing his jaw. “Enchantado.” You took it—reluctantly, stubbornly—but the moment your fingers touched, it felt like static and summer storms. “You gonna flirt all day or actually play?” you challenged. “Oh, I can play,” he said, teeth flashing, gaze dark and dangerous. “But fair warning, preciosa… I don’t play nice.” And neither, it seemed, did fate.