Dirty Girl

Marco Polo

Jordan had just wrapped up her volunteer shift when she settled into a shaded seat at the poolside café, a garden salad in front of her. She’d chosen her spot deliberately, with an unobstructed view of the resort's swimming pool. At the moment, three young children were squealing with laughter, flinging a beach ball back and forth with their mom. Soft Hawaiian music floated through the air, blending with the unmistakable scent of coconut suntan lotion and ocean breeze.

Watching them, Jordan’s thoughts drifted to Caleb—her son—and the countless hours they'd spent together in pools over the years. Her favorite games had been What Time is it, Mr. Wolf? and Marco Polo. The memory of Marco Polo made her smile. They’d played it every summer afternoon at the local community pool, just a block from their little red brick bungalow.

Like clockwork, they’d change into their swimsuits at 1 p.m. sharp. With towels slung over their shoulders, they’d stroll out the front door, bound for the pool. Neighbors often spotted them and would call out, asking to tag along. Soon, a merry little caravan of kids and parents would be walking together, laughing and chatting as they went.

The entire afternoon was spent "cooling off" in the water—even though the pool wasn't heated and felt more like melted glacier water than a refreshing swim. Still, the kids didn’t care. They stayed in until their lips turned a concerning shade of blue.

Eventually, anxious mothers would haul them out, wrapping them in oversized towels and holding them until the shivering stopped. Then came the juice boxes—stab the straw through the foil, slurp every last drop, then crush the box into a perfect collapse. Once rehydrated and warm, they'd beg to go back in, the frigid temperatures never deterring them.

Jordan could still feel the sting of chlorine in her eyes, the way she’d squeeze them shut while yelling “Marco!” and waiting for Caleb’s gleeful “Polo!” He’d dive and dart around her, narrowly dodging her flailing hands.

As Caleb got older, things changed. He’d forget to check in, miss curfew, or disappear to play basketball without notice. Rather than nag, Jordan would just text him one word: Marco. And without fail, he always replied: Polo.

The thought made her heart swell with affection. A private joke that had become their own little lifeline—part nostalgia, part connection, all love.

Her reflections were interrupted by a young brunette waitress in a flowy tunic who arrived with her salad—an artful mound of greens, bright berries, and edible flowers. Jordan's stomach growled in anticipation. She stabbed a piece of lettuce and a strawberry, gliding them through a smear of poppyseed dressing before lifting the fork to her mouth. She inhaled deeply, savoring the vibrant scent before taking a slow, thoughtful bite.

The resort food was something else—bursting with flavor, like the island itself had poured sunlight and sea air into every bite. It was a far cry from the greenhouse-grown produce back home in Northern Canada.

After lunch, Jordan kicked off her sandals and wandered toward a quiet stretch of beach. The sun had begun its descent, casting golden light through the swaying palms. Her sandals dangled from her fingers, the sand cool beneath her feet. But her heart still felt heavy.

She didn’t know exactly what she was searching for.

Peace.

Clarity.

Or maybe just a distraction.

And then, as if summoned by her unspoken wish, a figure rose from the surf.

Jake.

“That was a fast round of golf,” she muttered under her breath, barely audible even to herself.

Water glistened on his impossibly perfect body, droplets tracing down sculpted muscles that looked like they’d been carved from stone and gifted just the right amount of golden tan. His damp hair curled at his forehead, and his swim trunks clung unrepentantly to his thick thighs.

Jesus, she thought, this man’s abs have abs.

But it wasn’t just the body. It was the way he smiled—that casual, confident, heart-melting smile. The way he looked at her, like she was the only woman on the island. That’s what really made her pulse race.

She bit her lip. Should she ignore him like he’d ignored her earlier? Play it cool?

But Jordan wasn’t one for spite. Vindictiveness had never suited her.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, her expression softening into a graceful, friendly smile.

Jake spotted her. His face lit up with that signature charm she couldn’t resist. He jogged toward her, his every movement a perfect blend of strength and ease. He stopped just short of her, close enough that the heat from his skin cut through the salty breeze.

“Jordan,” he said, his voice velvety and teasing. “I don’t see you all day, and then you appear like an angel the moment I need you. Serendipity at its finest.”

So that’s the angle, she thought. We’re pretending you didn’t ghost me earlier. Weird… but sure.

“How sly of you,” she replied playfully, her smile curling. “Using words like ‘angel’ just to get me to help.”

She followed his gaze to the water, where a set of oversized floats shaped like lily pads bobbed in the surf. Five of them, evenly spaced—clearly a setup for an obstacle course.

Jake reached out and gave her upper arm a light squeeze. The heat from his touch shot through her like lightning. She licked her lips, and the taste of salt lingered, making her crave something more.

“Stop that,” Jake said suddenly.

“Stop what?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“Undressing me with your eyes. We’ve got work to do!” His grin widened, completely obliterating his fake scold.

How does he flip so fast? she wondered. One second smoldering, the next second teasing, then all business.

And damn it all if she didn’t kind of love it.