“You’re no fool, Luca,” he says, glancing toward the glass wall that looks out onto Emma’s workspace.
“I’m not following.”
He chuckles like we’re in on some shared joke. That’s the thing with men like Eyre—just because we both have balls and a dick, they assume we share perspective. If he knew I was imagining dunking his hand in acid, he might not smile so smugly.
“You’ve got a view of her from your desk.”
My jaw clenches. My blood’s starting to bubble. Maybe wedothink alike. And that’s what’s pissing me off.
“Are you here to invest,” I ask coolly, “or to hit on the women in my office?”
He chuckles again, crossing one leg over the other. “Hard to resist, Walker. But you’re right. Let’s get to it.”
We spend the next ninety minutes going over his lifestyle, goals, and what kind of property fits his absurdly specific standards.
Marco Eyre is your textbook Miami mogul—twice divorced, four kids from four different women, loves nightclubs and brunches equally. He wants a home that can do both: accommodate family and host parties that piss off neighbors.
That narrows things down by about forty percent.
Normally, I wouldn’t waste my time with a client like him. I have agents who handle people like Eyre. But I met him at the marina last week and promised I’d take care of him personally.
Now that I know he knows Emma, I’mgratefulto keep him on a short leash.
“Well then,” he says, standing and buttoning his jacket, “just let me know when we can start viewing properties.”
I rise with him, shaking his hand firmly. “Tell me,” I say casually, “do you only invite the pretty faces to your yacht?”You really think I’m leaving Emma alone with you?
He smirks. “Nah, ugly bastards like you are welcome too.” His laugh is fake, and his grip loosens. “We’re sailing Saturday morning.”
“And the plan?”
“Head north. But, hey, I’m unpredictable. Might change course just for the fun of it.”
Yeah. I know. The marina staffhateshim for that ‘unpredictability.’ He’s got a superyacht that holds fifty people. Me? I’ve got a sailboat meant for one.
Just the way I like it.
Brenda opens the door, sensing the meeting’s wrapped up.
As Eyre walks out, he flashes a final smile. “See you Saturday.”
I nod once. Now I just have to figure out how to crash a yacht party with Emma Green aboard… and not completely lose my mind.
I haven’t spoken to, seen, or thought about Emma Green since Saturday night.
Okay, that’s a lie—thethinkingpart, anyway.
After we were interrupted in my room, the night went to hell. Matt—being Matt—smashed a ceramic statue over Bunny’s head. (Lauren. But thanks to my brother, that nickname is branded into my brain.) Blood everywhere. Panic.
I didn’t even hesitate. Silas didn’t have to ask—I drove them to the hospital and stayed. Hours on those stiff plastic chairs, Emma by my side.
She’s usually this unshakable beam of sunshine. But that night? She wasn’t. She was nervous. Vulnerable. And somehow, it felt like an honor to be the one she leaned on. Like even in the chaos, she’d chosen me.
When the doctors finally took Lauren to stitch her up, Emma started murmuring to herself, “Someone's being born, someone's dying, someone’s getting bad news, someone’s crying… Someone's being born, someone's dying…”
I asked what it was.
She said, “Oh, it’s something I do to remind myself that whatever I’m going through, someone out there is going through worse. So, I should feel grateful.”
