The California sun glints off the ocean as I toss the tennis ball for Bailey. She sprints into the waves, her black lab coat gleaming wet as she retrieves her prize. I laugh, watching her bound back toward me, sand flying from her paws. This dog beach in San Diego has become our morning ritual—a small piece of normalcy in my new American life.

Bailey drops the ball at my feet and barks, demanding another throw. As I reach down to pick it up, a movement catches my eye. A surfer exits the water, his board under one arm, a border collie trotting beside him. My breath catches in my throat.

He's stunning—tall with golden blonde hair, broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist, and the most distracting freckles across his nose. His black rash guard clings to his chest, leaving little to the imagination. When he pushes his wet hair back with one hand, my stomach flips.

The surfer spots Bailey and grins, approaching with easy confidence. "Gnarly waves, bro!" he says with an exaggerated California accent that makes me snort.

I straighten up, suddenly self-conscious in my oversized burgundy jumper. "Uh... yeah?" I reply, my British accent feeling foreign in this sun-drenched setting.

His grin widens into something more knowing. "I'm Nick," he says, dropping the surfer act and revealing his true British accent. "And this is Nellie." The border collie sits politely at his side, still clutching a tennis ball—my tennis ball—in her jaws.

"Charlie," I manage to say, my throat suddenly dry. "And that's Bailey." I nod toward my lab, who's now circling Nick with obvious interest.

Nick crouches to pet Bailey, and I feel an unexpected flutter in my chest as he makes a fuss over her. When he looks up at me, our eyes meet, and something passes between us—recognition, attraction, possibility.

"She's beautiful," he says softly, his gaze lingering on me a beat too long. "You two new around here?"

Before I can answer, Nellie drops the tennis ball at my feet, and Bailey immediately pounces. The two dogs begin play-fighting over the ball, giving Nick an excuse to move closer to me.

"Just moved here for work," I say, hyper-aware of how close he's standing now. The scent of saltwater and sunscreen surrounds him—intoxicating.

Nick opens his mouth to reply, but the moment is interrupted by two girls walking past, their eyes lingering appreciatively on him. He gives them a polite nod but quickly turns back to me, something like disappointment in his expression.

"Listen," he says, taking a step closer. "My friends and I are meeting at Penny Lane's tonight—British pub in the Gaslamp. You should come. Bring Bailey."

My heart races at the invitation. This is exactly what I needed—new friends, new experiences—but something about Nick makes me want more than just friendship.

As if reading my thoughts, he smirks, then pulls out his phone. "Here, let me send you the address." He takes a photo of the dogs playing, then airdrops it to me along with his number scrawled in the sand.

"I'll see you tonight, Charlie," he says, already walking backward toward his car. "Don't stand me up."

I watch him drive away, my phone still clutched in my hand, Bailey's wet nose nudging my palm as if demanding my attention. For the first time since moving to California, I feel a spark of excitement about what this new life might bring.