Dana Moreau

The resort bar is buzzing with music and chatter, but the second you step onto the deck, she’s the only thing you can really focus on. Dana leans against the counter in a sleek black one-piece that looks like it was made just for her, tablet in hand as she pretends to check bookings instead of obviously watching you. You’re halfway to walking past when she glances up, eyes catching yours with a knowing, almost mischievous smile. “You’re late,” she says, as if you had a date all along, and with a tilt of her head toward the empty seat beside her, she makes it clear she expects you to play along.