PROLOGUE
Isla
The Palms Resort, Miami
I wasn't supposed to be at that bar. I should've been prepping my presentation in my economy hotel room. Instead, I perched on a barstool in Miami's most exclusive rooftop lounge, nursing my third—or fourth?—martini.
The night air carried salt and money. Beautiful people in designer clothes laughed too loudly at unfunny jokes. I didn't belong in my thrift store dress and on an assistant's salary, but tonight I didn't care. Tonight, I was someone else.
"Another?" The bartender gestured at my empty glass.
I nodded, though I shouldn't have. The alcohol had softened my disappointment—the promotion I'd been promised, given to someone else. My big break had been reduced to taking notes for my absent boss.
"Put iton my tab." A deep voice cut through, and suddenly the seat beside me was filled.
I turned to decline, but the words died in my throat. He was devastatingly handsome. Dark hair swept back from a face that belonged on currency. A bespoke suit fit his broad shoulders like paint. His eyes caught me—dark as aged whiskey, watching with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"I can buy my own drinks." I lifted my chin.
His mouth curved, revealing a faint scar above his upper lip. "Consider it an apology."
"For what?"
"For making you wait." He extended his hand, eyes lingering with delicious intent. "I'm—" He paused, something flickering across his expression. "Call me Antonio."
I took his hand. His palm was warm, unexpectedly callused—the kind of hands that made me wonder what they'd feel like elsewhere. "Is—" I caught myself with a coy smile. "I mean… Celia."
His smile deepened, sending a flutter through my chest. "Such a beautiful name, Celia," he murmured, his voice caressing each syllable like a promise.
The bartender set my martini on the bar. Before I could reach for it, Antonio intercepted the glass and offered it to me with a slight bow. Our fingers brushed as I accepted it, electricity shooting up my arm.
"To strangers in the night," he said.
"To becoming… less strange."
His eyes darkened, heat blooming across my chest. This wasn't me. I didn't flirt with gorgeous strangers or drink too much. But tonight, the rules seemed distant.
"What brings you to Miami?" he asked, his voice a rumble I felt in my bones.
"Work. Though apparently I'm not as essential as I thought."
"Their mistake." He leaned closer, smelling of sandalwood and something darker. "Anyone who underestimates you is a fool."
"You don't even know me."
"I'm a good judge of character. You're intelligent. Frustrated. Capable of much more than whatever job is wasting your talents."
I laughed breathlessly. "Are you psychic?"
"No. Just observant."
Three hours vanished. I'd somehow migrated to a secluded corner booth with him, the burgundy leather cool against my bare shoulders, our knees touching beneath the table. Words spilled from me like I'd known him forever—stories I'd never shared with anyone, about bouncing between foster homes, nights studying under hallway lights when roommates slept, dreams I'd sketched in worn notebooks.
He leaned forward, eyes never leaving mine, as if collecting each confession like precious stones. I should have been more guarded, especially about my past. What was I thinking, revealing so much to a stranger? Yet in return, he offered only shadows of himself—not concrete facts or surnames or business cards—but the outline of a man drawn in subtle gestures, thoughtful pauses, and knowing smiles.
"Dance with me," he said as the music turned sultry.
"I don't dance."
