Author's note: I would like to apologize from the bottom of my heart for my extremely late update. I had previously lost inspiration to finish this story, but the Plot Bunny Gods finally shone a light on me and this story. Thank you so much for your support (I seriously don't deserve you all).

Enjoy!

Sex on a Beach

Great, fun and lighthearted cocktail. Great conversation starter. Doesn't necessarily mean you're getting laid.

Ingredients: 2.0 oz. of vodka, 1.0 oz. of peach schnapps, 2.0 oz. of grapefruit juice, 2.0 oz. cranberry juice.

How to Make: Toss everything into a highball glass with ice. Stir the mixture. Garnish with a slice of orange or cherries.

Credit: Mix that Drink Dot Com

"What the hell was that?"

This was a question Santana's been asking herself (with a bit more profanity) for the past twenty-four hours.

What the hell was that?

What happened last night went against everything Santana had stood for. She was never a nervous wreck. She never just stood frozen in front of person, looking like she was starring in some terrible rom-com movie. She always went for the kill.

"I should be asking you the same thing," Santana retorted, tempting to snatch Sam's precious beer from his hand. He had some nerve coming into her bar after his latest stunt. "How are you gonna just bring her in like that?"

"I didn't think you'd react like that," Sam defended. "I thought you'd be happy to see her again? How long as it been? Seven years?"

"You threw me off," Santana grumbled. "You know I don't like being thrown off."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, Your Highness."

"As you should be," Santana snapped, though there was no heat behind it. Because she knew, deep inside, that Sam's intentions were innocent. "And now, because of your little stunt, I got to get you a girlfriend."

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Sam insisted, loosening his chair. That was a hint that he was becoming nervous. "I mean, we all don't have to get a—"

"Shut up, I'm getting you a girlfriend."

Having friends was both a blessing and a curse.

Especially when they were a rich, aspiring socialite, moments from marrying even a richer man. Especially when they became far too invested in some stupid bet made by their stupid friends. Especially when their name was Kitty Wilde.

Who just happened to be friends with far too many people in show business.

Which was the only reason why Kurt Hummel, celebrity stylist and make-up artist, was sitting in front of Santana at her namesake bar, sipping on Apple Martini's with Kitty basically fidgeting out of anticipation next to him, having her own Martini.

Santana didn't ask for this.

Kitty could care less about her feelings.

"I was told you are in need of my assistance," Kurt said, smiling. Giddy. Like he was excited to be involved in this mess. Practically flailing his arms around. "I am glad to help."

"Thank you," Santana said, diverting her eyes from the ecstatic man. The sight of him was making her head hurt, not because of him. No, he, always way too energetic for his own good, was fine. It was just everything about him screamed loud, starting from his very colorful attire.

A shirt should not have that many bright colors.

"So, Kitty, over here was telling me that you and a friend are involved in a matchmaking bet?"

"I guess you can say that," Santana said, shooting Kitty a mean look; the other wasn't fazed one bit. "It's stupid, really. But he's apparently, winning."

"You have a set date?"

"We didn't think that far."

"Ah," Kurt said, raising an eyebrow before glancing back at Kitty who just shrugged. "So who's the Romeo'?

"Sam Evans," Santana replied, unlocking her phone to search for a good picture of her friend. When successful, she showed Kurt. "He's a looker, but dense in the romantic world." That earned a laugh. "I was trying to reconnect him with an old flame."

"Right," Kurt said, nodding. "Mercedes."

"How did you know her?"

Kitty scoffed from afar.

Santana rolled her eyes.

"I'm her stylist," Kurt confessed, smirking. "And I know about her little fling with your friend. Didn't know it was that seriously."

"That whole thing was a shit-show full of people who didn't know how to use their words," Santana explained, flashing back that hot mess. She didn't get it; they were perfect for each other. But Sam being Sam was being Sam. "Wait, she told you?"

"Of course," Kurt smirked. "It's amazing what you can learn over a round of mimosas."

"So, are you going to help us or not?" Kitty asked.

"Sure," the stylist said. "But we have a little problem. Well, big. Over six feet and two hundred-fifty pounds of muscle-problem. She's dating Shane Tinsley, and it seems serious."

"Fuck," Santana cursed.

She saw Brittany again at the end of the week. During one of the most important day in the bar scene, second to Thirsty Thursday's, Friday night.

It wasn't expected.

And Santana was sure Sam had nothing to do with it.

Brittany was sitting at the bar, sipping on some Sex on the Beach, laughing away at some most likely corny joke made by Santana's prized bartender, Louis.

(Her feelings towards Louis were along the line of love-hate; similar to how it was with Sam, interestingly enough).

And she was just beautiful as the night before and that night seven years ago with her hair up, and barely-there makeup. She was a dancer, Santana knew about it, and based on Brittany's attire- a loose t-shirt and some sport leggings- and the way her skin glistened with just enough sweat, Brittany must have come straight from work.

Santana was going to do this. And she was going to do it because she wasn't a goddamn, love-sick, blubbering fool (that was Sam's job, she concluded with all of the affection in the world).

She had to be calm and collected. Cool. With one target and one target only. After downing what was left of her coffee (she refused to drink on the job), she bee-lined to the bar with her head up high.

It took Brittany a moment to notice Santana by her side, but when she did, she placed her drink on the bar table and grinned as if Santana was the person she wanted to see all along. "Well, what do you know, Miss Santana is gracing me with her presence."

Perhaps this was what drew Santana to Brittany; her light-heartened aura. The fact that it any inkling of awkwardness (on Santana's part) from the day before.

Santana felt that she could start over.

(And not act like a love-sick school girl).

"Brittany." Santana leaned her back against the wall and watched Brittany maneuver around her seat so both women were facing each other. "What brings you along to my establishment?"

Brittany grinned as she took a sip of her drink, not once removing her eyes from Santana's. "Had a tough practice. Thought I'd come here to unwind."

Santana liked the sound of that.

"And?"

Brittany raised an eyebrow. "And what?"

"Is it everything you wanted?"

Brittany gave Santana a once-over. At least, she attempted to be coy about it. "Yes, it is."

"Well, I'm glad."

"Hey Louis, another one, will ya?" Brittany called out. "A mimosa, this time." Her attention returned to Santana. "I love Sex on the Beach, but having two won't do me any good especially with an early morning coming it."

Santana could help but smile.

Louis gave the dancer a thumbs up, and made her drink a few moments later. "For you, Miss Brittany."

"You're a doll," Brittany chirped, pulling out some bills from her sports bra. "How much?"

"It's on the house," Santana quickly said.

Louis seemed surprised, but shrugged and said, "Sure thing, Boss Lady."

"Thanks."

"Thank you," Brittany said, actually grateful. "You didn't have to do that."

"After my behavior yesterday, I owe you drinks for life."

Brittany grinned. "No, it's fine," Brittany insisted. "It has been seven years. I was just as shocked to see you."

"You were?" Santana shook her head. "Yeah, well, sorry."

"I don't know why you're apologizing."

"I'm not always a blubbering fool."

Brittany laughed. "I figured you weren't. Sam told me that, too."

"Uh, did he?" Santana cleared her throat and, "And how do you know Sam, anyway?"

"I guess you can say he's an ex."

Santana blinked. Damn, did that man get around, and nothing still was sticking. He needed help; maybe professional help. She wondered how mad he would be if she hired a legitimate matchmaker.

Anyway.

"Seriously? So was mine."

Brittany laughed. "Oh my gosh, what are the chances?" She leaned in, dropping her voice. "I mean, are we supposed to be friends with our ex's like that?"

"I went out with him back in high school," Santana said. "During my closeted phase."

Brittany nodded, understanding. "Ah yes, I remember those days..." she trailed off and shrugged. "We only messed around for a month; Nothing serious. I just came out of a relationship; he just came out of his..."

"Really?" Santana asked. "With whom?"

"You wouldn't believe this." "I mean, it's like six degrees of Kevin Bacon with that man—Mercedes."

Santana jolted back. Seriously, what were the odds? Mercedes Jones, the Grammy winner. The woman whom she wanted to hook Sam up with because of a dumbass bet. What were the odds?

She cleared her throat as Brittany continued.

"I'm dancing for her international tour starting next month," Brittany explained. "Absolutely a pleasant to work for. Wasn't weirded out at all when she found out about me and him. Not that I broadcasted or anything, but you know, we can't hide secrets forever." She shrugged. "It's no big deal… Hey, so, let's start over, shall we?" she offered, placing a warm hand on Santana's arm. "I'm going to be in the city for the next two weeks... so how about dinner tomorrow?"

Santana blinked.

Did that just happened?

The amused yet hopeful look on Brittany's face definitely said it did.

Santana was so confused.

This wasn't supposed to be this easy. She was the forward one. She was the one who put on all the moves. And here she was, once again, not being her, and—

"To reminisce," Brittany added with a wink.

To reminisce about what? They barely knew each other. The only thing to reminisce was the body shot incident and last night's happy hour fiasco.

"To get to know each other more," Brittany said, apparently not taken aback by Santana's reaction. It was almost like she had expected it. "If you don't mind."

"Never," Santana said.

"Santana Lopez, you're making my head hurt," Kitty grumbled as she took a bite out of her prized slice of tiramisu. She was supposed to be on a diet for her upcoming wedding (completely unnecessary in Santana's mind), but there was something about that damn cake that she couldn't get away from. So as of last week, she was on a no-sugar, no-fat, no-carb diet with a couple of slices of tiramisu aside.

The bride-to-be claimed it was working.

Santana couldn't gather enough care in the world to question her.

It wasn't like it was life-threatening or anything.

Anyway.

"I don't understand. You're more indecisive about your love life than I am about whether or not I should add my stepmother who's old enough to be my little sister to my Bora Bora wedding party." Kitty shook her head. "You have a date tomorrow with your body-shot buddy. I thought you'd be jumping for joy."

"First of all, I don't jump for joy," Santana said, slightly offended. Though—she would only admit such six feet under—she had been thrilled when Brittany put her number in her phone. "And second—I thought you were going to invite your stepmother, just to keep your dad's mouth shut? And please do not tell me you're getting married there."

"She's practically a child!" Kitty exclaimed before angrily taking a bite out of her cake. "Okay, so she's like a year younger than me, but still. And what's wrong with Bora Bora?"

Bora Bora was a shit-ton of money for people below Kitty's tax bracket.

"Bora Bora is a honeymoon location, not a location for a wedding."

"Says who?" Kitty said, bringing her hand to her chest in her usual dramatic way. "Oh, I see what you're trying to do. You're changing the subject," she accused.

Santana rolled her eyes. Okay, so she was, but whatever. "I'm not—"

"Yes, you are!" "And I don't appreciate you trying to gaslight me."

Santana blinked. "I'm not sure you're using that word—"

"Whatever."

Santana shook her head and ordered a glass of red wine. It was late, and she was technically off the clock; she could handle some wine right now. "Look, I'm saying I'm not looking forward it. It's just that, you know me, I don't do dates."

The last time she had been on an actual date was back in college.

"First time for everything."

"And don't you think it's weird?" Santana carried on, annoyed at how much sense Kitty was making. "She used to date Sam. She works for Sam's ex sort-of-kinda girlfriend."

"Puleeze, who hasn't Sam dated?" Kitty snorted, rolling her eyes. "If it wasn't for Jake coming along, I'd probably go on a date with him, as tragic as that sounds. And anyway, wasn't it just rebound sex?"

"So, you don't think it's weird."

"No, darling, I don't, and neither does she," Kitty said, and then sucked her teeth. "Damn it, Santana, this whole-insecurity-kick you're having right now is not a good look on you. You need to stop them so much damn much. It's one date, not a damn marriage proposal. See how it goes; hey, the night may turn out better than the grand opening. Maybe you'll get more than a body shot?"

Santana eyed her friend. "You're oddly optimistic."

"It's the wedding bliss," Kitty said with an uncharacteristic smile, and then, "Hey, you'll never know if you try."

Santana guessed she was right.