Is that a gun in your pocket?
or are we just two tequilas in and dating in South Florida?
Oh come on, you knew I had to come back with a bang 😏
Standing in an empty apartment, I exhaled. You did it. You finally made it out of Tampa.
Of course, we stick with the cliché—this feels like a fresh start.
I had just landed my dream job and now stood in a gleaming high-rise, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting a city I had just met. To my right, an oversized balcony where I could smell the sea breeze and hear the bustle of downtown Fort Lauderdale—the perfect meet-cute of the city’s past and future.
Old Mediterranean buildings, sun-worn and elegant, stood in perfect contrast against modern glass towers. And then, as if on cue, the sky shifted—bright blue melting into soft shades of pink. The cotton candy skies I would come to love. I turned toward the horizon, and there it was—sunlight dancing against the ocean. An ocean view.
I still couldn’t believe it. I gripped the apartment keys tighter and stepped onto the balcony, grounding myself in the moment, reminding myself this is real. The oversized balcony that, though I didn’t know it yet, would become the backdrop of so much life—laughs, tears, kisses, long talks, late-night dances, healing.
For now, I was just here for two years. At least that’s what I told myself. But I intended to enjoy every moment of it.
To me, Fort Lauderdale was the perfect blend of a sailor’s dream, a beach town, and a city. Getting here had felt impossible. As a single mom, I had spent the last twelve years fighting my way out of a paycheck-to-paycheck existence. I had no friends here. No community. Leaving behind my support system was daunting.
And yet, for the first time in my life, I could finally breathe.
I had just started my dream job. I was living in my dream apartment. I no longer had to hold my breath when someone ran my credit card.
I did that. I did it all. By. Myself.
But unfortunately, that also meant I was by myself.
A sigh escaped me as a familiar sadness crept in. I don’t want to do this all alone anymore. I never really did, if I’m being honest. I’m a romantic at heart, wired to love fiercely. My whole life, I dreamed of finding my person, even as I was fighting my way through survival. I had officially run the full obstacle course of post-divorce dating—survived the rebounds, sidestepped (okay, tripped headfirst into) the trauma bonds, rode the emotional rollercoasters, and somehow, somehow, made it out the other side. For the first time, I wasn’t just dating—I was actually dating healthily.
And then… just when I finally got my shit together, I moved.
Impeccable timing, as always.
It had always felt impossible before. But maybe—just maybe—I was finally ready for him now.
My son was finishing out his school year in Tampa before he would join me in the fall.
A tear fell as I leaned over the balcony, watching it drop 15 stories until it disappeared. I missed him. I hated that we were spending so much time apart in this transition.
He’ll understand one day, I told myself.
Okay. This is supposed to be a happy day. Time for a drink. I wiped my face, took a deep breath, and turned back inside.
With nothing but a balcony chair, an air mattress, a scattering of moving boxes, and a Diet Coke in the fridge, I figured now was as good a time as any to venture out for food.
I put my Google skills to work and landed at The Riverside Market—a converted gas station turned beer-and-food joint. Definitely a must-visit if you’re in the area. I mostly hated beer, but maybe beer in Fort Lauderdale didn’t taste like piss in a can?
Side note to beer lovers—who hurt you? Seriously, why is sour piss your flavor of choice?
I digress.
I wandered toward the fridge, looking for the closest thing to a Corona so I could drown it in lime and salt—a little trick I picked up from my ex-husband’s family, who are from Mexico. If I’m being honest, it basically turns beer into a sparkling margarita. Zero complaints.
As I opened the fridge door, a very tall, handsome man walked up next to me. He reached for a beer, glancing in my direction. I pretended not to notice, but my eyes followed him back to his seat to check if he was alone.
Satisfied with the answer, I eenie-meenie-miny-moed my beer choice, grabbed it, and slid into the table directly in front of him—right in his line of sight. Total coincidence, of course.
Minutes passed, filled with stolen glances and near-smirks. Then, finally, we locked eyes. I tried to keep it cute and took a sip of my beer…
Yuuuuccckkkkkk.
Every natural instinct in me fought to suppress the deeply unattractive face I wanted to make—the kind that looked like I might be having a stroke.
Because the universe hates me, it didn’t work. This is exactly why I don’t play poker.
I saw him watching me, amusement flickering behind his eyes with a look of slight concern that I might actually be having a stroke as he chuckled to himself. Then, without a word, he picked up his beer, his food, and walked straight to my table.
“Hi, I’m Shane. Is this seat taken?”
Tall, unsuspecting, casually very handsome in a simple t-shirt and jeans—the kind of man who could build you a house with nothing but some twigs, a shoelace, and a couple of matches.
“It is now” I quip and gesture for him to take a seat.
I’m not even sure what we talked about, but the sparks were flying. I live for good banter, and I’m one hell of a flirt—luckily, Shane did not disappoint as a worthy opponent in the age-old art of verbal foreplay.
As it turns out, Shane had also just moved here, so we swapped notes on the area, playfully mapping out future spots to explore. He was charming. Very charming. And I knew this game well. That little voice in my head started whispering: This one’s a Mr. Right Now, not a Mr. Let’s-Meet-Your-Parents-for-Brunch.
As that thought lingers, I’m half-listening to him talk about finding the best breakfast burrito in town when I look up—and our eyes lock. The air shifts. I physically feel the tension now.
Oh boy. That feels like trouble.
I thought I left nonsense back in Tampa.
He leans in, stopping just before his lips touch mine, and whispers, “I think we should get out of here.”
After that disgusting beer and not even the faintest hint of a buzz, my mind drifts to the aged rose tequila sitting back at my apartment. I could use some fun, you know—to celebrate.
I smirk. “I know a place. No real seating, no table for your drink—but we’ve got good tequila.”
Old Habits Die Hard.
“Sounds perfect. Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Shane says, standing and offering his hand.
For my younger readers—only the Elders will know that saying, you’ll need to update your algorithm to hear that one in the wild.
As we step into my apartment, my voice echoes through the empty space. Welcome home!
“Wow, this place is impressive…even with no furniture.” he teases. “You weren’t kidding. There’s literally nothing here. Where the hell do you sleep?”
“Sorry, that’s classified,” I smirk, pouring us each a glass of tequila and sliding his across the kitchen island. Because I’m very cool and smooth.
“Oh, is it now?” He leans in, fingers wrapping around the glass. “Well, what are the prerequisites to gain access to classified information?”
“It’s a moving target,” I say, taking a slow sip of my tequila. “Come on, let’s drink this on the balcony—the view is amazing, and it’s the only place to sit.”
I turn briefly to put on a record for some background music, and when I turn back, I see Shane… putting his hand down his pants. WHOA!
What. Is. Happening.
I freeze. This is not how I saw the evening unfolding. Somehow, it’s happening both way too fast and in slow motion at the same time.
Just as I’m about to intervene—because seriously, wtf?!—I realize he’s not reaching for his… uh, personal belonging. Instead, he nonchalantly pulls out… a gun.
Yes. An actual gun. From his pants. With zero warning.
What the—
I’m alarmed by the fact that my first reaction is relief.
Relief that he pulled out a gun and not his… other weapon of mass destruction.
And then my senses finally kick in.
Donna, wake up, that’s a GUN he just pulled out of his pants!
My brain is instantly firing off jokes (not the time, girl, NOT the time), but before I can fully panic, Shane calmly places the gun on my kitchen counter.
And then, right next to it, something shiny catches my eye.
A badge. Whew.
“You’re a cop?”
“No, I’m a U.S. Marshal,” he says casually. “I came armed in case you tried to take advantage of me.”
“You didn’t mention that,” I say firmly.
“You didn’t ask.” He grabs his drink and nods toward the balcony. “Come on, you’re safe with me.”
I am often wrong, but my gut never is. I felt calm because my gut knew I was safe, and I trust myself more that anyone else.
He takes my hand, raising it to his lips—kissing my hand, my wrist, then trailing a few more down my arm, each one meant to be reassuring.
“And since my credentials don’t grant me access to classified information,” he smirks, “I’ll have to find something to do with you since I don’t know where you sleep.”
“You can’t keep me up all night. I have an early flight tomorrow—business trip,” I warn.
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
And, well… he didn’t break a promise.
Sitting on the plane, landing in LA, I exhaled.
I had fun, yes. Was I satisfied? Sure. Did I regret it? Not at all. But I also knew, without question, that chapter of my life was over.
This is not what we’re doing anymore.
I wanted more. I wanted available. I wanted extraordinary.
I wanted to love—and to be loved—with conviction.
As I stepped off the plane and into the California sun, I knew one thing for certain:
These men may have brought the heat, but I was done playing with firearms.
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AHAH. Good stuff girl :)
I seriously miss these sunrises. Also, coming here to say that’s the best title/subhead I’ve ever read