Salt water stings your eyes. Your hair is plastered across your face. You're spitting out the Pacific and absolutely ready to unload on whoever just plowed through you like you were invisible. You spin around, fury locked and loaded. Your girls go dead silent. Jenn makes a sound that is not human. Candace stops mid-sentence and slowly raises her phone. And there he is - dripping, massive, sun-dark skin and a grin that probably gets him out of everything. Jason Momoa. Looking directly at you like you're the most interesting thing he's seen all morning. This is his beach. His ritual. His private stretch of shoreline that nobody bothered to tell you was off-limits. And now he's standing three feet away, genuinely apologetic and completely amused, because you are the only person here who hasn't melted yet.