The Nightingale brothers are the gold standard for hot and accomplished.
Not only do they own hundreds of investment properties in Florida, but they also just bought out the Palm Beach Sports Complex. Basically, the place where professional athletes come to train and be taught by the best in the business before heading to the Olympics or major league for their sport.
I’ve flown with multiple trainers and athletes over the years, getting to hear firsthand how prestigious that facility truly is.
“I’m so proud of you, Kimber. You’ve worked your ass off for this,” I tell her.
I take in the happiness radiating off my friends. Betsy, with her fire engine red hair, flawless pale complexion, and dancer’s build. And Kimber, with her long blonde hair, falling naturally down her back, bright blue eyes, andbountiful curves. We’re all so different, yet have a bond like sisters.
These women are my family by choice.
“Honestly, I can’t believe they liked my designs the best out of everyone. I mean, I know my designs are good, but compared to some of the other decorating companies in Miami, the stakes were high.”
“Kimber, you’re literally the best interior designer in the city. Stop downplaying your talent,” Betsy adds, signaling for the server to come over. “What’s next, girls? I need to get a good vibe on where we’re headed tonight. Party till our eyes bleed, or in bed by eleven, binge watching 90210?”
“Definitely 90210,” Kimber and I say in unison, the three of us falling into a fit of laughter.
“Chardonnay it is,” Betsy tells the server before handing him two twenty-dollar bills. “We need a good buzz. Not the kind we regret in the morning.”
“You’ve decorated homes for everyone important under the sun. Celebrities, athletes, government leaders. It’s a big deal forthemto landyou, babe,” Betsy continues, and I couldn’t agree more.
“I’m so glad we were able to come out and celebrate,” I cheer.
It’s been too long since the three of us have had a free weekend to just get out and relax a little. It’s true what they say about living in the city—it never sleeps.
I’m always traveling. Always on the go and never at home for longer than a week at a time, most months. And living in the city is not cheap, but it’s a lifestyle I love and wouldn’t trade for anything. Which comes at a higher price tag, unfortunately.
Although I make a lot more than most women in my field and for my age, I had to heavily depend on mysavings for big purchases. Since my mom was my sole parent, I never wanted to ask her for anything that the typical parent wouldn’t pay for.
Like a car. Downpayments. All of the things you don’t realize you’ll need to pay for until the time comes.
I got a job at fifteen. Bought my own car. Paid for insurance. Literally any need I had as a teenager and young adult, I covered on my own. Hence, the reason my savings are nearly nonexistent. My income is substantial enough to allow me to live comfortably for the cost of living in Miami, but there isn’t much room for both—living and actively saving.
That’s why I’m nearly working my life away picking up extra flights.
I even considered taking out a small loan for my mom and not telling her where I got the funds. She’s an emergency room nurse, working long hours as is, and unfortunately, underpaid and underappreciated.
But I know how much that house means to her, and I would hate to see her lose it over issues that are entirely out of her control.
“Oh my god, Cove. I totally forgot to ask you. What’s going on with that sugar daddy you flew private for last week? Have you seen him again?” Kimber asks.
Betsy bites her fist, fighting to regain control and not screech. “Nice to see you holding in your slutty comments for once, Bets,” I mumble, casting my pretty friend a squinted smile.
Betsy and I live together by choice. We rent a penthouse in downtown Miami, and it works since we both have wildly chaotic schedules. We take care of each other. She’s my best friend and all the company I need. But the one downside of living with your best friend is that theyknow everything about your life by default. Betsy calls it a perk; I call it an imposition.
I keep telling her that nothing about my encounter with Stetson Cole was memorable.
He’s just a guy.
Just an older, wealthier, established, likely more experienced, and deadly for my feminine willpower, unfairly attractive guy.
We had a conversation at the airport bar. That’s all there was to it.
“Of course she hasn’t seen him again, Kimber,” Betsy mutters. “It’s Cove we’re talking about here. She’s allergic to men.”
“I am not allergic to men,” I deadpan.
“Well, you definitely don’t like women,” Betsy counters.
