He crosses my path, talking to a small group of attendees as he walks.
There’s an intensity in his powerful stride as he makes his way toward double French doors that lead into a VIP room at the end of the hallway.
I stop in the doorway of my next session, stealing a few more seconds to shamelessly stare at him from this angle.
When he reaches the destination, he holds one of the French doors open for the attendees with him. Like a gentleman should. Once the last of the group disappears in the room, his gaze strays back down the hall, checking out his surroundings like a bodyguard checking for threats.
His dark eyes find me, and he doesn’t look away for several tingly seconds. He just stares at me, unflinching, unashamedly. A tiger checking out his prey.
His eyes travel down my body, lingering briefly on the tattoo on my shoulder.
Then, he turns and goes inside.
I spin around, drawing a steadying breath as I smooth a hand over my sleeveless black dress with the cherry print.
You’re here for work, Lola Jones.
I touch my conference badge; the skull-shaped rings on my fingers are a reminder too. I started the Lola brand when I was a senior in high school and desperately needed to become another version of me. Someone without news stories of family tragedy trailing her. Someone not bound by a promise.
Lola is carefree, independent, and happy-go-lucky. Lola earned my going-out money during college.
Lola can create a hell of a seductive smoky eye and design a terrific user interface for an app.
Most of all, Lola is just Lola. Here, I’m not the daughter of Anna Mayweather, the woman who founded a global billion-dollar makeup empire. Orthat girlwhose family was torn apart one dark evening in Manhattan.
With that, I march inside and settle down in a chair. I cross my legs. Open my tablet. Listen attentively.
Only, near the end of the session, my mind briefly wanders to the other room. Who is that guy dressed up in the smart, tailored clothes by day and dressed down in a sexy swimsuit by night? What is he doing here at the conference? And…will he go to the ocean again this evening?
Too bad I won’t be playing volleyball then, since I’ve got a networking dinner to attend.
But really, it’s not like I’m going to stalk him on the beach. I’m not even going to look up who’s speaking in the VIP room right now to see if I can figure out who he is.
I’m here for my business. I’m not here for a man.
No matter how fast my pulse continues to race.
2
I DON’T ALWAYS FOLLOW THE RULES
Nick
This is a perfect morning for a swim outdoors under the bright, blue sky, the sun’s rays warming my shoulders.
I freestyle my way down the pool for another glorious lap, shuddering at the thought of the gray skies waiting for me in London tomorrow when I return. I’m going to suck the juice out of every second here in the South Florida sun.
I should probably wear sunscreen. But I don’t always follow the rules.
I finish the final lap, running a hand over my hair as I climb out of the infinity pool at my older brother’s Miami Beach home. I grab a towel, and after I dry off my face, I tip my chin toward my brother. He’s stretched out on a lounge chair under an umbrella, shades on, holding the last of a delicious-smelling espresso beverage. “Man, what kind of service is this if there’s no Café Cubano waiting for me?”
Finn scoffs, the sun glinting off the few silver streaks in his dark hair. That’s new, but I don’t give him a hard time about it. My turn is coming.
“You get a free place to stay, Nick.” He sweeps out a hand, indicating the pool here at his second home. “You get a free pool to use. Now you need free fucking coffee?”
I stand over him and shake my wet hair, flinging droplets like a Saint Bernard. Okay, less than a Saint Bernard would, but still satisfying.
“You asshole!” He sits up, wipes his face, and holds up his cup. “If you got chlorine in my cup…”