Too Hot for Me - Chapter 1: The Heatwave

 Summer isn’t always about tan lines and frozen drinks. Sometimes, it’s about coming home when you swore you never would—and running straight into the kind of trouble that makes you forget why you left in the first place.

Sadie Collins thought she knew what “too hot” meant. Blazing sun, sticky air, small-town boredom. But then a lifeguard with storm-gray eyes dives into her quiet little world, and suddenly, the heat isn’t just coming from the weather.

This is Too Hot for Me—a summer fling with a pulse.
A story about the girl who came home to cool off, and the man who made her want to burn.

Chapter One

Sadie

The Heatwave

The air feels heavy enough to chew. Even the breeze that rolls off the ocean can’t compete with the kind of heat that sticks to your skin and makes the sand feel like it’s trying to brand your feet. Kids shriek near the shoreline, gulls dive for dropped fries, and somewhere behind me, a car stereo is blaring an old country song about small towns and summer love.

I should probably find it charming. I don’t.

It’s the same beach I grew up on, same boardwalk with the same peeling paint, same teenagers working the snack shack pretending they’re too cool for sunscreen. The whole scene smells like nostalgia and coconut oil, which sounds better than it feels when you’re twenty-seven, unemployed, and back in your childhood bedroom with a sagging mattress and a mom who still leaves Post-it notes reminding you to hydrate.

“Between jobs,” I tell people. It sounds better than lost, even if that’s exactly what I feel most days.

The truth is, I didn’t have a grand plan when I packed up my apartment and came home. I just knew I couldn’t stay where I was. Too many closed doors, too many almosts. So here I am, waiting tables part-time at a diner that smells like coffee and bad decisions, pretending this is a pit stop and not a full-blown detour.

I came home to figure things out. Take a breath. Save a little money before I move on to somewhere new. But three weeks in, I’m already climbing the walls. Everyone I know either got married, had babies, or bought houses within a five-mile radius of the high school. I can’t decide if that’s sweet or terrifying.

There’s a kid screaming about a dropped popsicle. His mom looks seconds from losing it, hair plastered to her forehead. A group of teenage girls pose for selfies in matching bikinis, angling for the best lighting. A golden retriever digs a hole near the dunes like it’s his personal mission. The whole thing feels frozen in time.

I sip my now-lukewarm iced coffee and watch a group of surfers argue about waves that barely qualify as ripples. The smell of sunscreen, fried dough, and salt air wraps around me like a memory I didn’t ask for.

“Nothing ever changes,” I mutter, dragging my towel higher on the sand. “Except the humidity.”

A bead of sweat slides down the back of my neck. I swipe it away with the edge of my towel, then flop onto my back, closing my eyes against the blinding sun.

This was supposed to be relaxing… just me, the ocean, some overpriced iced caffeine, and a few hours of pretending I have my life together.

Instead, I’m lying here cataloging every single reason I need to leave again.

A whistle blows, it’s sharp, cutting through the chatter and music. My eyes snap open.

For a second, I expect to see the same old lifeguard crew I used to flirt with in high school, back when I thought tan lines and lip gloss could get me anywhere. But the figure standing on the chair isn’t familiar.

Broad shoulders. Sun-dark skin. A flash of red trunks and mirrored sunglasses.

Definitely not one of the locals.

He moves fast, grabs the rescue tube, hits the water in a clean dive. The crowd starts to shift, people standing, pointing. A kid must’ve gone out too far, caught in the current.

The heat presses in around me, but it’s not just from the sun anymore.

Something about the way he moves, confident, sure, zero hesitation, hits me square in the chest. He cuts through the waves like he’s been doing it all his life, like the ocean itself is just another part of his shift.

I prop myself up on my elbows, heartbeat ticking faster as he reaches the struggling kid, calm and efficient, not a single wasted motion.

And just like that, the heat isn’t the only thing making my pulse jump.

The kid’s eight, maybe nine, small enough that the waves look bigger than they are. He’s flailing hard, arms splashing more than swimming. His mom’s standing knee-deep in the surf, panic written all over her face, frozen between going after him and screaming for help.

The lifeguard—him—doesn’t hesitate.

He hits the water in a single, clean dive that would’ve made my old swim coach cry tears of joy. No showboating. No yelling for attention. Just focus and motion, cutting through the choppy surface with smooth, powerful strokes until he’s beside the kid.

I stand without realizing it, towel slipping off my lap. People around me start moving closer, a half circle forming along the shore. The mom’s crying now, voice cracking, but he’s already got the kid’s arm looped over the red rescue buoy. Calm, steady, unshakable.

“Kick for me, buddy,” I hear him call out, low but firm. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

And damn if the kid doesn’t do exactly that.

It takes less than a minute before they’re back in the shallows. He crouches down, checking the boy’s breathing while the mother drops beside them, hands shaking. The kid coughs a few times, sputters, then starts crying and everyone lets out this collective exhale, like the whole beach was holding its breath.

A few people clap. Someone whistles. The mom throws her arms around her son, sobbing into his wet hair. The lifeguard gives a quick nod, says something I can’t hear, then stands and brushes the water off his chest like he just walked out of an action movie.

Only, he doesn’t look like he’s performing. He looks like a man who’s done this a hundred times before.

Sunlight hits his shoulders, dripping down the hard lines of muscle and tan skin. There’s a scar across his left collarbone, faint, silvery, the kind that makes you wonder.

And now I’m staring.

Full-on, unapologetically staring.

His hair’s dark and wet, pushed back off his forehead, and when he takes his sunglasses off to hand them to another guard, I catch a glimpse of his eyes—storm-gray, serious. The kind of eyes that look right through you and somehow make you wish they’d stay there.

He scans the crowd, probably checking that everyone’s fine, that no one else is about to make his day harder. But when his gaze hits me, it stops.

For half a second, maybe less, it feels like the entire beach disappears.

Then he puts the glasses back on, climbs back up the chair, and sits like nothing happened.

Around me, life resumes. Kids start building sandcastles again. Someone turns the music up. The world keeps spinning.

But I’m still standing there, pulse thudding in my neck, coffee forgotten, heat crawling up the back of my thighs.

I tell myself it’s just adrenaline.
It’s not.

I tell myself I’m not going to talk to him.
That I’ll pack up my towel, dump out my watery coffee, and mind my own business like a normal, non-flustered adult.

But then he climbs down from the lifeguard chair, slings the red buoy over one shoulder, and starts walking in my direction, broad shoulders steady, each step making it hard to remember how to breathe.

Great. Perfect. Just what I needed.

He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell the ocean on his skin and the faint, sharp tang of sunscreen. The kind that never quite rubs all the way in.

“You okay there?” he asks, voice low and rough, still carrying that calm authority from before.

“Fine.” I shade my eyes, pretending I’m not checking him out again. “Just wondering if hero duty comes with a fan club or if you take applications.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “You offering?”

I shrug, casual as possible when my pulse is sprinting. “Please. I don’t have the patience to watch someone preen for attention.”

“Good thing I wasn’t the one clapping for myself,” he says easily. “You seemed pretty invested, though.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He gestures toward the water with a tilt of his chin. “You were watching the whole time. Didn’t even blink until I got the kid out. You sure you’re not part of the fan club?”

I can feel the heat crawl up my neck, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “Maybe I was just worried. Happens when someone runs into the ocean like they’re auditioning for Baywatch: Bro Edition.”

That finally earns me a real grin, slow and crooked. “You always this mouthy, or is it just the heat?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

He studies me for a beat, eyes hidden behind those reflective lenses again. “Name’s Dax Hunter.”

“Sadie Collins.”

He repeats it once, like he’s testing the sound. “Sadie Collins. You local?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunate for you, or for everyone else?”

“Depends who you ask.”

He laughs under his breath, quiet but warm. Then he shifts the buoy off his shoulder, muscles flexing with the motion, sunlight catching on the water still clinging to his skin.

“Careful, Sadie Collins,” he says. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you’re trouble.”

I arch a brow, ignoring the way his voice slides over my skin like another layer of heat. “Or maybe you’re just not used to someone looking back.”

That grin again. Lazy. Confident. Dangerous.

“Maybe,” he says. “Guess we’ll see which one of us burns first.”

And just like that, he turns, walking back toward his post without another word.

I stare after him for far too long, muttering to myself, “Definitely trouble.”

Only this time, I’m not sure if I meant him—or me.

He gives me one last look before turning away, a hint of a grin still ghosting his mouth. Then he walks back toward his tower and climbs the ladder to his post like he never left. Sunglasses on, shoulders loose, scanning the horizon again.

I wait until he’s back in the chair before I grab my towel and shove it into my bag. My hands are shaking a little, which is ridiculous. He’s just a guy. A ridiculously hot, sun-soaked, way-too-confident guy who probably has women lining up just to get rescued.

Not that I care.

I’m not here for that. I’m here to reset, remember? Clear my head, figure out what comes next, maybe remember how to be a functioning adult. Getting flustered over a lifeguard with a jawline that should come with a warning label does not fit anywhere on that list.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and start the slow trek up the beach. The sand burns against my feet, every step another reminder that I’m out of practice at this, heat, stillness, feeling things I didn’t plan to.

“Too hot for me anyway,” I mutter under my breath.

It’s supposed to sound dismissive. It doesn’t.

Because underneath the sarcasm and the sweat, something’s still humming in my chest. That look he gave me, steady, unhurried, like he’d already figured me out, hasn’t left my head. I hate how it felt… how seen I felt. Like he wasn’t just looking at me; he was reading me.

I stop at the edge of the boardwalk, adjusting the strap of my bag. The ocean glints in the distance, sun catching the surface like shattered glass. He’s still up there, perched high on that lifeguard stand, scanning the water like nothing and no one rattles him.

Of course he looks perfectly at ease. Men like him always do. The kind who know how to take charge, who dive headfirst into chaos and somehow make it look easy.

I, on the other hand, am sweating everywhere and mildly regretting my life choices.

I turn to go, determined to put some distance between me and the walking distraction in red swim trunks.

“Hey, Collins.”

The voice hits me from behind, deep and steady. I turn before I can stop myself. He’s watching me over the rim of his sunglasses, one brow raised.

“Don’t forget to hydrate,” he calls, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Smartass.

I raise my coffee cup in mock salute. “Way ahead of you.”

His grin widens just slightly, then he settles back into his chair like he didn’t just set my pulse off again.

I walk away faster this time, pretending I don’t feel his gaze following me until I’m halfway down the boardwalk.

By the time I hit the parking lot, I’ve convinced myself I’ll never see him again.

But the universe has a sick sense of humor.

Because in a town this small, “never” doesn’t mean much.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix