Page 7 of Chasing Paradise

“You better. If I have to drag my ass all the way to Florida, let alone South America, I’m going to be pissed. Okay. Go. Love you.”

“Love you too,” I said, climbing out of the car.

I was cutting it close with my flight. So after I got through security, there was no time to stop for some much-needed coffee, let alone any food. I had to run to the gate to just barely make it on the plane.

By the time I was in my seat, I was in a sour mood. And too hungry to sleep, like my mom suggested.

So I gripped my armrests and comforted myself with thoughts of slapping cuffs on this Warwick guy’s wrists, dragging him to the police station, and getting my little finder’s fee. Then doing nothing for months.

Hell, maybe I would finally get my own apartment instead of crashing on the couches of my friends and family. Or, on occasion, the couch at the office.

It always felt pointless to pay for an apartment that I would almost never be spending any time in. Plus, it was just begging to be robbed.

But with half a million dollars in my bank account, I could cut my workload by half or a third.

I wouldn’t even know what to do with that time.

As things stood now, when I wasn’t working on a case, I was mostly sleeping, catching up with my family, or trying to figure out what my next case would be.

What would I do if I had every weekend free? Maybe even weekdays? Pick up a hobby?

I was still mulling over such a different life when we finally landed in Miami.

The humidity had my hair sticking to the back of my neck as I walked down the jet bridge, making me rummage around in my bag to find a hair tie.

I blamed my distraction for what happened next.

I was still trying to tie my unruly hair up in the tie as I walked into the concourse, so I was only half paying attention to the various sights around me: shops, boarding areas, and gates.

But I felt this strange—I don’t know—shiver move up my spine that had me stopping dead.

“Watch it,” someone grumbled as they rammed into me, sending me forward a step.

In my line of work, you had to trust your gut instincts. And something was telling me to turn back around, to look closer at… something.

I spun around, trying to see past the small rush of people walking right toward me. I scanned their faces, but nothing was clicking.

Not until I looked toward one of the gates.

My gaze landed on one man. He was tall and fit under his fitted white tee and cargo shorts.

I was just looking at the back of his head, so I had no idea what was calling me to him.

Then he turned, looking around the airport one final time.

It was the eyes.

Because half of his face was covered in a beard that made his features difficult to see.

But those bright green eyes had my stomach flipping.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I mumbled to myself, reaching for my phone, powering it back on as my heartbeat tripped into overdrive.

I needed to be sure.

I couldn’t go making a scene at an airport. I’d get my ass detained by security and likely questioned like the crazy person they’d think I was.

My phone took a frustratingly long moment to load—long enough that the line he was in started to move, getting onto their plane, possibly taking him away from me.

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