A Date With Bridgette !!exclusive!! Direct

“Those are the only kinds of things worth telling.”

She laughed softly. “I was scared to come out tonight.”

I handed her a strawberry. “What did it say?” a date with bridgette

“Okay,” she said finally, taking the book from my hands and setting it in the sand. “Race you to the water. Fully clothed.”

She stared at me. “Did you just call me a man?” “Those are the only kinds of things worth telling

The waves kept up their endless shuffle—push, pull, drag, sigh. Seagulls argued over a forgotten french fry. Somewhere down the beach, a portable speaker was playing something slow and Latin. Bridgette sat up and leaned against my shoulder, her hair smelling like salt and coconut and something else—something clean, like line-dried sheets.

“Okay,” she said, scanning the horizon with those pale blue eyes that always seemed to be reading the wind. “We’ve got about forty-five minutes before the best light is gone. What’s the move?” “Race you to the water

I eased up, letting the bike coast to a stop near the end of the pier, where the tourists thinned out and the fishermen were packing up their rods for the day. The sun was that impossible shade of gold that only happens in late spring, when the marine layer hasn’t yet decided whether to roll in or retreat. Today, it was retreating.