Page 1 of Hot Lovin'

Chapter 1

Lottie

The seagulls squawk their morning symphony as I jog along the sandy edge of Sunrise Bay, the salty breeze teasing my ponytail into a riot.

My “jog” is more of a “fast walk.” I’m not built to be a runner—my thighs are too heavy with zero daylight between them, and my big boobs are too big. They’re barely contained by the sports bra I’ve crammed them into, giving me a very unsexy “uno-boob” look, which makes an unattractive slapping noise as I move.

But I don’t care. I embraced my jiggles, rolls, lumps, and bumps a long time ago. We’re all built differently, and I’m happy to break the stereotype that says big girls don’t exercise and eat crap. I eat healthily, but I don’t deny myself a daily treat. Life’s too damn short to say no to a juicy blueberry muffin or a slab of carrot cake.

I breathe deep, inhaling the tangy sea air. My “jog” to work is an inherent part of my morning routine and sets me up for the day. The rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore mixes with the distant hum of a fishing boat chugging its way out to sea, creating a soothing and invigorating soundtrack.

I moved to Sunrise Bay for work two months ago and immediately fell in love with the quaint coastal town. Something seemed to settle in my bones when I moved into my cozy, modern coastal house a few miles from the beach. I love the clean lines, open spaces, and reclaimed elements that reflect the surroundings and add warmth to my home. It’s a far cry from the city life I left behind.

Excited barking cuts across my thoughts, and I grin at the sight of Captain, Mr. Jenkins’ schnauzer, attempting to herd the waves back into the ocean. His fur, damp and scruffy, stands in defiance of his futile mission.

“Good luck with that, Captain.” I chuckle to myself, slowing as I approach the weathered boardwalk. The planks creak underfoot, a familiar serenade of my daily route.

“Morning, Lottie!” Sally calls from the Beachside Café.

Sally stands behind the counter, wiping the same spot with a dishcloth, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun. The rear patio doors are opened wide, and her voice carries over the sound of sizzling bacon and the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

I slow my pace. “Hey, Sally! Save me a muffin, will you? The blueberry ones are basically a health food, right?” I quip, breathing in the scent of pastries mingled with the sea breeze.

“No calories in those bad boys!” she calls, her pretty face breaking into a grin. The sunlight catches the freckles scattered across her nose, making her look younger than she is.

I give her a thumbs up before picking up my pace again, my sneakers leaving faint imprints on the damp sand coating the boardwalk. The occasional piece of driftwood catches my eye, but I stay focused, the rhythm of my breathing syncing with the ebb and flow of the tide.

I’d like to think that my morning exercise doubles as a community service. My smile and wave routine to the locals is a reminder that there’s always something to be happy about. It’s part of what makes me good at my job. As a social worker, I carry an arsenal of optimism—it’s necessary ammunition in a world where I’m often the bearer of bad news. Or witness to some pretty heinous life choices. That smile and wave seem to make the world a better place for all of us.

As I step into our small office unit, greeted by the familiar hum of the shared printer. The space we occupy is modest but functional. The reception area has a couple of worn but comfortable chairs for visitors, a small desk for our receptionist, and a scattering of motivational posters on the walls—reminders of resilience and hope.

The small kitchen allows us to make coffee and store our lunches, although we tend to favor Sally’s amazing coffee and delicious food at the Beachside Café.

The playroom occupies the final room, a colorful space where foster kids or the children of parents who need our help can play safely while we talk and deal with paperwork.

“Morning, Sandy.” I smile at the pretty, dark-haired young woman behind the reception desk. “How’s Billie?”

“Oh, she’s much better, thanks, Lottie,” Sandy says, her blue eyes sparkling in her round face. “Luckily, it was only a forty-eight-hour thing. She’s back at school today.”

Sandy is a single mom to Billie, her eight-year-old daughter. Sandy had to take off from work a few days ago to pick Billie up from school when they called to say she was running a temperature.

“Ah, that’s great. Kids bounce back so quickly,” I say, pausing to grab a cup of water from the cooler. “It’s good to have you back. We missed you.”

“I appreciate you and Jan being so understanding about me having to take time off,” Sandy says gratefully. “It’s tough not having a husband or parents to fall back on.”

“That’s what I love about working here. We’re a team. And Billie is your priority. She’s a wonderful kid. You’re doing a great job,” I tell her.

The phone rings, and Sandy gives me a grateful smile as she reaches for the handset.

I leave her to it, heading up the hallway that leads to my and Jan’s offices. Each room is no bigger than a generous closet, but we make do. Jan’s office is the first on the left, and her door is slightly ajar.

“Good morning, Jan,” I say cheerily, poking my head through the opening.

My boss is already hard at work, glasses perched on her nose, brow furrowed in concentration as she types away on her computer. Her office is a mirror image of mine but always immaculate. Shelves line the walls, filled with books on social work, psychology, and a few framed photos of her family and her and I at various charity events.

The energy in our small office unit is a blend of quiet determination and relentless optimism. It’s a place where we face the harsh realities of the world head-on but never lose sight of the little joys that keep us going.

Jan looks up at my greeting, her serious expression melting into a warm smile. “Good morning, Lottie. How are you today?”

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