We'll Always Have Sausalito
The Casper Chronicles continue with a first kiss miss...
📩 Previously, on Plot Twisted:
One Tequila, Two Tequila, Banned from Beverly Hills For Business or pleasure? Welcome to The Casper Chronicles.
The last month had been nothing short of surreal.
A sporadic phone call from Casper—just a month after our kismet meeting at Spago—had since spiraled into a budding romance.
Hours lost in deep conversation, nights spent falling asleep on the phone, wiping away happy tears and enough belly laughs to reveal the outline of abs I hadn’t seen in years.
I don’t know that I’ve ever met someone so dedicated to knowing everything about me. The way my brain works, the things I wouldn’t think to say out loud—he actually wanted to know it all. The sharpness of his candor could cut glass, and while that might be off-putting to some, for me, this honesty was everything I’d ever wanted.
After a decade-long playlist of emotionally unavailable men on repeat, it was refreshing to not only have a man take a genuine interest in knowing me but to show me—every single day—exactly how much he liked me.
This connection felt like something I’d been moving toward for a long time without even realizing it.
Every choice, every detour, every seemingly insignificant decision had been quietly building momentum, pulling me forward. And somehow, without either of us knowing it, he had been doing the same.
Two separate forces, each charting our own course, making choices that felt independent at the time but were, in hindsight, inching us closer to each other. A series of unseen ripples, building, gathering speed—until suddenly, we were here. We were standing face to face in this exact moment, in this exact place, where the momentum of our individual paths finally converged.
And when we met, it wasn’t just a meeting. It was movement. An acceleration. A collision that didn’t break, but built.
In physics, there’s a phenomenon called constructive interference when two waves meet at just the right moment—crest to crest—they don’t cancel each other out. They amplify. The energy doubles, the sound grows louder, the light shines brighter.
I’d always imagined love as two people merging into one, but maybe it was more like this—two distinct forces, moving through the world independently, until one day, they cross paths. And instead of clashing, they build on each other’s momentum.
Alone, each of us had been moving in our own rhythm. But together? Our conversations hummed in tune. Our laughter overlapped. Our words crested into something bigger than either of us had expected.
Maybe this was what people meant by a twin flame—not someone who mirrored you, but someone who made you burn brighter.
Despite spending hours on the phone every day, no conversation was ever dull. We’d dive deep one moment and crack up the next. It was the emotional equivalent of the first sip of an ice-cold Diet Coke on a hot summer day—effervescent, electric, impossible to resist.
And before you get all holier than thou about my Diet Coke habit—no, I don’t care how many chemicals it has or if it’s slowly poisoning me. You will never take my Diet Coke away from me.
Falling for someone over the phone was a kind of intimacy I had never experienced before.
Up until now, intimacy had always meant the physical—the nearness of bodies, the warmth of skin, the charged air between two people about to collide.
But with Casper? It was the electricity I could feel without seeing him. It was knowing I was right there with him, and he was right there with me, even though we were thousands of miles apart.
And for the first time, I didn’t have to stand in front of someone naked to feel seen.
Something about the way we laughed together felt sacred, like a kind of alchemy only we could create. On almost every phone call, we’d always say with surprise that we were laughing until we cried—but I assumed it was just something we said.
It wasn’t.
Now, after nearly fifty hours on the phone since our destined crossing in LA, I was sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, having flown across the country to be here, face to face. And here he was—eyes welling up, tears slipping down his cheeks—as we collapsed into laughter so deep, so raw, that it felt like the purest form of connection I had ever known.
That was the moment I realized—words over the phone were one thing. But to witness it? To see the way he felt things in the moment, the way he felt me?
That was something else entirely. I can still see this memory vividly, like a scene playing out in a movie.
“Are you crying, too?” I ask breathlessly, wiping my own laugh-tears away.
He exhales, shaking his head with a grin. “I am. And thank God, because I needed something to distract me from staring at those sexy legs you’re showing off over there.”
I smile, glancing out the window, taking it all in—the infamous red iron of the Golden Gate Bridge blurring past, the mountains stretching in the distance, the weight of the moment settling in.
We were here. Finally.
And just ahead, Sausalito awaited—the backdrop of our first date.
Sausalito. A charming waterfront town, tucked across the bay from San Francisco—beautiful, intimate, and undeniably romantic.
No phone calls. No distance. Just us.
At that just-us moment, it hits me.
Oh f*ck. This could all go terribly wrong.
Just as panic creeps in, the view washes over me, instantly grounding me. I step into our suite—a stunning boutique hotel room with a balcony overlooking the marina. Masts sway gently against the ocean backdrop, the mountains stretching beyond. The only thing interrupting the postcard-perfect view is an antique white railing framing our balcony.
Somewhere between our marathon conversations and a growing certainty that this was something special, our concept of a first date had manifested into an entire romantic weekend in Sausalito.
We drop our bags and head out to explore the town.
We walk as I play tourist. Sausalito may be one of the most magical towns I have ever seen. There’s an air of romance stitched into this place, with the marina stretched out before us and the golden light casting everything in a soft glow, I can feel it—a history that feels like it’s been waiting centuries to embrace a moment like ours.
Sausalito has always been a place for dreamers—once a bustling shipyard during World War II, it later became a refuge for artists, writers, and those searching for something just beyond the horizon.
It’s a place where time slows, where the waves echo the rhythm of two hearts finding their way to each other. The air carries whispers of old love stories, of secret rendezvous in waterfront cafés, of sailors returning home to long-awaited embraces.
As we approach the waterfront restaurant for lunch, Casper reaches for the door handle, then pauses, catching a glimpse of our reflection in the glass.
“Huh, we’re a really good-looking couple, don’t you think?” he says bluntly, catching me off guard.
I laugh, once again surprised by his complete inability to play it cool—something I find disgustingly charming.
Lunch is easy. We eat, we talk, we laugh. I marvel at the view while he marvels at how terribly an inexperienced sailor is attempting to dock his boat, watching with pure bewilderment as they nearly capsize. As he explains the nuances of sailing, his voice full of passion and authority, I realize just how much this world inspires him—and, in turn, how much that inspires me.
After our leisurely meal, Casper leads me through town with an easy familiarity, clearly putting real effort into making this date an experience for me.
There’s just one problem. The attraction between us is undeniable, but I can’t help but notice he hasn’t touched me. At all.
As someone who is both deeply affectionate and well-versed in how the male brain typically operates, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little unnerving. No accidental brush of the hand, no guiding touch on my lower back—nada.
I try not to overthink it as he leads us into a bar with no name. No, that isn’t me just being too lazy to look up the name. It’s literally called The No Name Bar.
We step onto the back patio, where a cast of local characters are already deep in conversation. Casper finds us a comfortable corner, sliding onto the bench beside me with his arm casually draped along the backrest.
Ah. I see. This man has the game of a middle schooler. Cute.
I smirk, deciding to test the waters. “What’s your drink of choice? Scotch on the rocks with a twist?” I ask, a nod to Friends, a show we had bonded over.
He looks at me, then at the bar, considering. “Sure,” he says at first, before quickly adding, “Actually… I’m really not that cool and sophisticated, so can I just get an Old Fashioned?”
At this point, we’re sipping our drinks, I’m relaxed into his arm, and we’re deep in whatever a twilight zone of romance is. My hand drapes over his leg as I sip my cocktail. The air around us feels thick with something unspoken, the tension building as the sunlight is filtering through the trees above the outdoor patio that we had all but melted into, at this point.
After another laugh, there’s a pause. A shift. His gaze lingers a little longer, his fingers tracing small, absentminded patterns on my shoulder.
All I know is that I really want him to kiss me.
Just when I think he might close the space between us, he exhales and says, “I think it’s time to go. Shall we walk a bit more?”
Smooth, Casper. Very smooth.
We’re about five hours into this date, and I can see the sun lowering just barely meeting the top of the mountains that disrupt the horizon—not quite golden hour, but that in-between moment where the sky is still burning bright before it melts into soft, golden streaks beaming across the sky. The marina glows beneath it, dotted with sailboats ranging from beautifully restored classics to…well, let’s call them optimistically afloat.
As we stroll along the pier, we’re playing a made up game of sailboat trivia to see if anything I’ve learned on this date has actually stuck.
Caught up in a state of bliss, I naively play along, pointing out boats I’d buy if I had a fortune to burn. That’s when we come upon a stunning display of maritime craftsmanship—sleek, timeless, dark wood polished to perfection. Everything about it oozes history, class, sophistication.
“What do you think of this one?” he asks.
I tilt my head, studying it. “She’s a stunner. Looks like it may have been built in the 70’s?”
Casper nods in approval, “I’m impressed.”
I continue with a little more confidence, “I could do without all the hunter green accents, though.”
Silence.
A look of pure amusement washes over his face. We take a few steps past the boat before something clicks in my brain, and my stomach drops.
“Your boat has hunter green accents, doesn’t it?”
He bursts out laughing. “It sure does.”
“Of course it does,” I groan, covering my face. “There’s no coming back from that one, huh?”
“Not a chance,” he says, still laughing.
While this was technically our first date, in some way, it felt more like our thirtieth. Our conversation felt effortless and familiar, but still carried the sparkle of something new.
Mid-laughter, we stop on the dock, pausing to take in the marina. A chilly breeze catches us both off guard, almost as if the wind itself was conspiring to push us closer together—a gentle nudge to move our love story along.
We turn to face each other, and suddenly, the world is silent.
The sun is now close to setting, its last golden streaks stretching across the sky, catching the water, catching him. The light dances across Casper’s face, his blue eyes squinting slightly in the glow. And yet, he doesn’t look away. Not even for a second.
I see him take a deep breath. Without thinking, I match it.
Our breathing syncs.
This is it.
My body moves on its own—my brain shutting down, my heart taking over. My head tilts up toward him, my feet shift just slightly forward. After a month of build-up, we’re finally about to—
“It’s getting cold, do you want to go inside for a bit?” he says abruptly.
ummm…excuse me?
I blink, jolted out of the moment and into pure confusion. What just happened? I nod, but knowing my lack of a poker face, I’m sure my bewilderment is painfully obvious.
The walk back to our room feels endless. My mind is in overdrive, running through every possible explanation for what just happened—or worse, what didn’t happen and why. A flicker of disappointment settles in, and I try to shake it off as I set down my things and steady myself to take off my shoes.
Casper exhales. “By the way, I just want to say… I know I ruined a really romantic moment out there.”
I look up at him, surprised by his bluntness.
“It was just really cold,” he continues. “I don’t want you to read into that. I’m just an idiot. A very cold idiot.”
I stand there, watching him as he fumbles forward.
I notice that he has this endearing mannerism—after saying something he considers emotionally brave, he lets out an abrupt deep breath, smiles, and nods proudly to himself, as if thinking, Alright, I did it. That wasn’t so bad. It’s very cute. It was the first time I noticed it, and as I’d come to learn, he does it almost every time.
And it is cute, every time.
“And I thought it would be nice to come back up here, get comfortable, slow down for a bit, and maybe order some strawberries and champagne?” He pauses.
As I stand there facing him, momentarily stunned by his admission, I sense there's more he wants to say. I nonverbally acknowledge what he’s said but stay silent for a moment, giving him the space to continue.
“But also… that doesn’t mean I don’t still want to take you out for dinner later. We can get dressed up and do a fancy dinner, or we can grab pizza at this little place where all the local drunken sailors go. Whatever you want.” He pulls his wallet from his pocket, setting it on the nightstand like he’s settling in—but before I can respond, he keeps going.
“Okay, I’m gonna get comfortable and change into my pajamas. And just so you know, I am aware that we’re in a very romantic hotel room with what looks like a very comfortable bed—but that doesn’t mean I’m trying to make something happen.
Not that I don’t want something to, you know, happen! I just want us both to be comfortable. So, feel free to put on pajamas too or whatever makes you feel relaxed, and I’ll order the champagne.”
Wow. What planet is this guy from and how do I place a bulk order for all my single friends?
As much as I tend to overthink things into a frenzy, he somehow already ran through every possible rabbit hole my brain could have gone down.
I smile, impressed by his candor. “Okay.”
Then, after a beat, I turn back to him and smirk as I walk to the bathroom to change.
“I’m more of a cabernet kinda girl, though. Plus, it’ll warm you up.”
Next thing I know, Casper is lying back on the bed, looking up at me as I sit next to him as we talk about everything and nothing. The bottle of cabernet is nearly drained, a plate of half-eaten strawberries beside me.
The only light in the room comes from a dim lamp and the moon pouring in through the open balcony doors. A salt-laced breeze carries the sound of waves lapping against the marina.
My hair is tousled from the sea air. His plaid pajamas clash with a threadbare tee—completely unbothered by the mismatch. I’m in a loungewear set, not my usual barely-there sleepwear, but enough to convince myself to I’m maintaining a pretense of self-control.
Time is completely lost on me, by now. Both of our phones died hours ago, untethering us from everything beyond this room. It feels like a dream. We’re relaxed on the bed, his hand curled around my arm as I sip my wine with the other. The air hums with electricity and effortless ease, our conversation maintains a dance of nonsense, depth, and truth. I toss out something undeniably charming, playful—a spark flickering in my voice.
Casper tugs me down beside him, nearly upending my glass. Wine sloshes, teetering on disaster, and we collapse into laughter at the near miss.
I stretch over him, setting my glass on the nightstand next to his, breathless. “You win,” I say as I lay down next to him.
He shifts, turning on his side, his face not even an inch from mine. Our noses graze.
“I won when you said yes to this date.” he replies, smirking.
The silence thickens. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear before trailing down the nape of my neck. No words, just his fingers lingering, pausing to knead away the day’s tension with a gentle squeeze. His thumb traces my jaw, eyes locked on mine before drifting to follow his own touch up and down the outline of my body, as if memorizing every curve. He lingers periodically on curves that particularly intrigue him—still not taking, just tracing, as if learning me. Gentle and respectful, yet charged with the restrained tension of desire.
“I can’t stop touching you,” he says softly “Your curves are addicting.”
I smirk.
“You hear that a lot, don’t you?” He exhales a laugh.
“Only from men who’ve been curve-deprived their whole lives.” I quip playfully. “Have you never dated anyone curvy like this?”
“No,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “And I can see I’ve been missing out, but you’re on another level. You’re like Jessica Rabbit on steroids!”
We erupt into laughter, the kind of laugh that doubles us over, rolling into each other, unstoppable and breathless.
“Did you mean to say that out loud?” I tease.
“No, but I really meant it.”
The laughter fades, replaced by something deeper. His finger slides under my chin, tilting my lips toward his. We move slow at first, then all at once—lips crashing like waves breaking free.
But it’s not just a kiss—it’s every call, every laugh, every moment spent building to this. Time bends, and I don’t know how long we linger, tangled together, but it feels endless.
The taste of strawberries and red wine lingers on our lips, dissolving into a slow unraveling of restraint. Each kiss carries the comfort of being so deeply understood by each other and the excitement of sparks flying with each connection.
In a fluid movement, I’m on top of him, peeling off my shirt, baring myself to him. He gazes, eyes wide with wonder. “Wow,” he breathes. I lean down to kiss him, but he pauses me, brow furrowing.
“Wait… what’s this?” His fingers brush the gold locket dangling against my chest, glinting in the moonlight.
I had forgotten it was there, lost in the moment.
“It’s my grandmother’s,” I say, my voice softening. “Inside is a photo of my grandfather—it’s the only thing I have of hers. She left it to me when she passed. If you look closely, there’s a dent from my baby tooth. I bit it once, and it left an imprint.” I pause in a moment of reflection. “Just like she left her imprint on me. She was the most important person in my life.”
He tilts his head, studying it, studying me. In a moment where most men wouldn’t be capable of full sentences with a half naked woman on top of him, he’s focused on this.
“Why do you ask?” I whisper, curiously.
“It looked important,” he says simply. “Like, something I should know about.”
His intentionality floods me. It’s overwhelming.
I cover his eyes with my hand—-I can’t bear this much vulnerability with his gaze piercing me. “She was everything to me,” I admit. “I wear it when I want something deep in my heart to go well.”
I slowly remove my hand from his eyes, and when he looks at me, it’s not just a look—it’s the kind of gaze that reaches into your soul. The kind that makes you feel undeniably, irrevocably seen.
He takes my hand, turns it over, and presses a soft kiss to my palm, then my wrist.
I take a breath, slipping the locket from my neck and setting it on the nightstand.
“But, I don’t think I need it with us.”
He pulls me in, and the rest of the night unfolds profoundly—the waves lulling us in the background, as we embraced the magic of the moment settling between us.
Destiny had a grip on us. Not even all the miles between our worlds could stop our collision. We rode the wave to Sausalito, and at our crest, it was undeniable—Casper and I were simply inevitable.
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