The Tenerife sun blazed down with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, turning the budget beach resort into a shimmering mirage of tacky flamingo floaties and sunburnt Brits. The pool, over-chlorinated to the point of smelling like a hospital ward, glinted unnaturally under the midday heat. At the sun-bleached bar, a bored bartender slung questionable sangria into plastic cups, the fruit chunks bobbing like sad little apologies. Beth, a 39-year-old mum of three from Wigan, dragged her overstuffed suitcase across the cracked tiles, her frumpy sarong clinging to her thighs like a damp tea towel. She felt like the ugliest woman on this godforsaken beach, her pale skin practically screaming for mercy under the relentless UV assault.
“Bloody hell, Beth, you’ve done it now,” she muttered to herself, squinting at the sea of bronzed, bikini-clad bodies sprawled on loungers. “First solo holiday in a decade, and you look like a pasty sausage roll at a supermodel convention.”
She’d left Carl, her snoring lump of a husband, back home with the kids and a freezer full of Iceland meals. This was her escape, her chance to breathe without someone shouting “Mum!” every five seconds. But standing there, surrounded by perky twenty-somethings snapping Instagram selfies, she felt more like a misplaced library book than a woman on holiday. Still, she’d promised herself she’d try something new—something daring. After dumping her bag in her shoebox of a room, she headed to the bar, ordered a sangria that tasted like regret, and downed it in three gulps. Then another. Liquid courage, she told herself.
“Right, let’s do this,” she said, her voice a little slurred as she marched to an empty lounger by the beach. She peeled off her sarong with the grace of a drunk toddler, revealing a mismatched bikini she hadn’t worn since before her youngest was born. Her heart thumped as she glanced around. No one was looking. Good. With a deep breath, she fumbled with the ties of her top, her fingers trembling like she was defusing a bomb.
“Bugger it,” she hissed as the knot refused to budge. Finally, it gave way, and she yanked the top off, tossing it onto the lounger like it was cursed. Her pale, freckled chest was exposed to the world for the first time since she was a teenager sneaking a skinny dip in the local canal. She lay back, arms awkwardly crossed over herself, waiting for lightning to strike. Instead, the sun did its worst. Within twenty minutes, her skin was the color of a boiled lobster, and she was pretty sure she could fry an egg on her cleavage.
That’s when she heard it—a wheezing, gravelly laugh that sounded like a lawnmower trying to start. She cracked open an eye to see an 80-year-old bloke, beer belly spilling over his Union Jack shorts, plonking himself onto the lounger next to her. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, his grin wide and shameless, a pint of lager sloshing in his gnarled hand.
“Blimey, love, you look like you’ve been dipped in ketchup!” he cackled, his voice carrying over the beach like a foghorn. “What’s with the face like a slapped arse? You on holiday or at a funeral?”
Beth’s cheeks burned hotter than her sunburn. She sat up, instinctively covering herself with her hands, and shot him a glare that could’ve curdled milk. “Oi, Grandad, mind your own bloody business. Not all of us tan like a sodding walnut.”
He roared with laughter, slapping his knee so hard his pint nearly tipped over. “Grandad? Cheeky mare! Name’s Reg, and I’ve got more life in me than half these pretty boys prancing about. And you, love, you’ve got some guts, I’ll give you that. First time topless, eh? You’re redder than a lad caught wanking in the loos!”
Beth’s jaw dropped, but a snort of laughter escaped before she could stop it. “You’re a right filthy git, aren’t you? And for your information, I’m just... experimenting. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
Reg winked, his watery blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Experimenting, eh? I like the sound of that. Bet you’ve got a wild side under all that blushing. What’s your name, firecracker?”
“Beth,” she said, rolling her eyes but unable to hide a smirk. “And I’m not a firecracker. I’m a knackered mum who’s forgotten what fun even looks like.”
“Bollocks to that!” Reg declared, taking a swig of his lager. “You’re out here, tits to the wind, giving the sun a right eyeful. That’s fun in my book. Tell you what, though, you keep cooking like that, you’ll be peeling like a spud by tomorrow. Want me to rub some cream on ya? I’ve got steady hands... for an old codger.”
Beth barked a laugh, shaking her head. “Steady hands, my arse. You’d probably cop a feel and call it an accident. I’m not daft, Reg. I’ve dealt with blokes like you before.”
“Oh, come off it, love,” he grinned, leaning closer, his breath smelling faintly of beer and mints. “I’m harmless. Just a lonely old bugger looking for a chat. And maybe a view. You’ve got a cracking pair, by the way—sunburn and all.”
She swatted at him playfully, her embarrassment fading under the weight of his relentless cheek. “You’re incorrigible, you are. Anyone ever tell you to keep your gob shut?”
“Plenty,” he chuckled. “But I never listen. Life’s too short for manners. So, Beth, what’s a stunner like you doing all alone out here? Hubby not up for a bit of hanky-panky in the sun?”
Beth snorted, adjusting her position on the lounger, her arms finally dropping to her sides as she grew bolder. “Hanky-panky? Carl’s more likely to fall asleep in his deckchair than get frisky. I’m here to escape him and the kids for a week. Thought I’d... I dunno, live a little. Not that I expected to be ogled by a dirty old man.”
“Dirty? I’m a bleedin’ national treasure!” Reg protested, clutching his chest in mock offense. “And I ain’t ogling. I’m appreciating. There’s a difference. Tell you what, why don’t we take this chat somewhere a bit more... private? There’s a nice shady spot behind the beach bar. We could get to know each other better. I’ve got stories that’ll make your hair curl—and not just the ones on your head.”
Beth froze, her heart doing a little flip she hadn’t felt in years. Was this wrinkly old flirt actually propositioning her? She studied his face, the devilish glint in his eye, the way his crooked smile dared her to say yes. Part of her—the sensible, prudish part—wanted to tell him to sod off. But another part, the part that had downed three sangrias and was currently roasting topless on a Tenerife beach, was intrigued. Maybe even tempted.
“You’re a chancer, Reg,” she said, her voice low, a smirk tugging at her lips. “What makes you think I’d go anywhere with a geezer who looks like he’s one pint away from keeling over?”
“‘Cause you’re bored, love,” he shot back, his tone cocky as hell. “And I’m the most excitement you’ve had all day. Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? I tell you a dirty joke and you laugh so hard you forget you’re sunburnt?”
Beth bit her lip, her mind racing. She wasn’t this woman—the kind who flirted with strangers, who considered dodgy offers behind beach bars. But damn it, she was tired of being predictable. Tired of being invisible. Maybe Reg, with his crude humor and shameless swagger, was exactly the shock her system needed.
“Fine,” she said at last, her voice firm, her eyes narrowing with a challenge. “But if you try anything funny, I’ll slap you so hard you’ll need dentures for your dentures. Lead the way, old man.”
Reg’s grin widened, and he hauled himself up with a groan, offering her a hand. “That’s the spirit, Beth. Let’s see if we can’t turn that slapped-arse face into a proper holiday smile.”
As they shuffled toward the beach bar, Beth’s stomach fluttered with a mix of nerves and reckless thrill. She didn’t know what she was getting into, but for the first time in years, she felt alive. And that, sunburn and all, was worth every bloody risk.
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