"They're just happy I'm doing something besides stress-eating takeout and reading employee handbooks."
"The bar was that low?"
"You have no idea."
We walk down the street, the ocean breeze carrying the smell of salt andsunscreen.
My hand is still in his, and I'm trying not to think about how perfectly it fits or how this is absolutely the kind of impulsive decision I swore I wouldn't make this weekend.
But as we turn the corner toward the hotel strip, and Don glances down at me with that half-smile that makes my knees nearly buckle, I can't bring myself to regret it.
Not yet, anyway.
Disaster, I’m sure, can wait until tomorrow.
Chapter two
~DONOVAN~
The walk from the bar to my hotel should take seven minutes.
It takes twenty.
Not because we're walking slowly—though we are—but because the gorgeous brunette I left the bar with keeps stopping to look at things.
A street musician playing guitar under a palm tree.
A window display of vintage postcards.
A cat lounging on a restaurant's outdoor patio like it owns the place.
"Do you think he knows he's a cat?" she asks, crouching down to get a better look at the orange tabby. "Like, does he have that level of self-awareness? Or does he just exist in a constant state of 'I am, therefore I nap'?"
"That's a very philosophical question about a cat."
"All questions about cats are philosophical." She stands up, brushing invisible dirt off her shorts. "They're basically tiny, furry Buddhas who occasionally commit murder."
I laugh, and she grins at me like she's won something.
We turn onto Ocean Drive, and the hotel towers ahead of us, all sleek glass and dramatic lighting. Em tilts her head back to look at it, and I watch her profile in the streetlight—the curve of her nose, the way her wavy hair catches the breeze.
“Fancy,” she says with a low, appreciative whistle. “Let me guess. Corner suite? Probably has one of those rainfall showers and a mini bar bigger than my monthly grocery budget?”
"Penthouse, actually. And the mini bar is criminally overpriced, yes."
She snorts. “Of course it is. So… do you always stay in penthouses, or is tonight some kind of special-occasion splurge?”
"Business trip. The company's paying."
"Mysterious company that sends you to Miami and puts you in a penthouse." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "Are you secretly a spy? A jewel thief? Oh God, are you a cryptocurrency bro?"
"Would that be a dealbreaker?"
"Absolutely. I have standards."
"Good to know." I steer us toward the hotel entrance, where the doorman—Frederick, based on his nametag—gives me a subtle nod. "For the record, I'm not a cryptocurrency bro."
"Then what are you?"
