Miami Dreams

Event planner Sofia Silva is hiding a big secret. No one can know that her engagement to her lying, cheating fiancé is over. Until she meets gorgeous, wealthy newcomer Jonathan Gunther. Jon moved to Miami for a legally sinful life of waterfront property, convertibles and no emotional entanglements. When he invites Sofia to lie low at his house, their undeniable attraction explodes...but will her dilemma ruin their chance at forever?

NADINE GONZALEZ was born in New York City, the daughter of Haitian immigrants. As a child, she was convinced that NYC was the center of the universe. But life has its twists and turns, and eventually she landed in Miami. She fell in love with the people, the weather and the unique mix of cultures. Now this vibrant city has become her home and muse.

Raised on a steady diet of soap operas, Mills & Boon romances, pop culture, global music, film and classic literature, Nadine hopes to infuse her novels with her unique worldview.

A firm believer in work-life balance, Nadine is not only a lawyer but also a self-proclaimed fashionista, political junkie, art lover, amateur illustrator, wife and mother. Learn more at www.nadine-gonzalez.com.

Unconditionally Mine

Nadine Gonzalez

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07805-4

UNCONDITIONALLY MINE

© 2018 Nadine Seide

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Ariel, my love, and Nathaniel, my heart.

For Stephanie, Katherine, Melissa, Ericka, Alexander and Andrew. The future is yours.

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to the editors at Kimani Press: Shannon Criss, Glenda Howard and Keyla Hernandez. Special thanks to Keyla for being the best first editor an author could have. Your patience and dedication to authentic storytelling is greatly appreciated. I wish you all the best in the future.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Sofia cupped the bottle of Dom Pérignon and released the cork. Pop! She poured the overflow into a glass and took a sip. Like water into sand. When was the last time I’d opened a bottle and had some non-work-related fun, she wondered. Short answer: her engagement party. But that didn’t count. The formal event had been organized at her mother’s request. And since that night, over a year ago, life had gone stale. No joy, no fizz, no pop.

This, however, was no time for a pity party. Sofia had an actual party—cocktails and hors d’oeuvres for fifty—to wrap up. Real life was work. Whoever promised her fizz and pop, anyway?

Sofia rested her champagne glass on the counter—a treat for later—took a deep breath and handed out her orders. “Melissa, please set up the champagne flutes... Ericka, where’s the box with the trays?”

The kitchen door creaked open. Expecting one of the waiters, she frowned at the guest peering in. Ground zero—in this case, a French country kitchen in the host’s Coral Gables home—was a madhouse. Guests weren’t welcome. And this guest... Jesus! He was two hundred pounds of muscle beautifully packaged in a heather-gray suit. She took in his toasty brown skin and intelligent brown eyes, and cleared her throat. “May I help you?”

“Some water...please.”

“Melissa, get this gentleman a glass of water.”

“A bottle, if you have it.”

Melissa held open the refrigerator door. “Would you prefer sparkling or flat?”

“Flat.”

“Spring or—”

“Melissa, please!” Sofia cried. The man shouldn’t have to answer a quiz.

Melissa handed him a small FIJI bottle. “Here you go.” She smiled shyly.

He smiled too, but there was nothing shy about it. Sofia stiffened. She felt the oddest sensation, the turn of a dial.

But with Watergate resolved and the guest gone, she focused on the task at hand. “Guys, the toast is in five minutes. Let’s go!”

Melissa lined up a row of champagne flutes, giggling as she worked. “That guy was so hot I nearly fell on my face.”

Ericka piled a dozen silver trays on the counter. “I thought you were only into pretty boys.”

“Comes a time in every woman’s life to forget the boys and find a man,” Melissa said.

“You’re a woman now?” Ericka asked.

Valid question. Melissa was only nineteen and looked even younger. But now was not the time to delve into it.

“Quiet!” Sofia snapped. “I need to focus.”

Everybody fell silent. She took a breath and started pouring from the bottle of Dom. The host, a hotshot Miami lawyer, was throwing this party for his firm. This wasn’t the usual office party fare. Normally, they’d serve coconut shrimp and California sparkling wine. This event was all about grilled scallops, crab cakes, smoked salmon topped with caviar, top-shelf liquor and fine champagne. For that reason, she’d taken on the task of filling the glasses herself—not that she was any good at it. It required steady hands, and she was anything but calm.

“Can I help?”

Damn! The words were spoken so close to her ear, she jumped and nearly spilled two hundred dollars’ worth of champagne down her shirt. Him again! What was he doing back in the kitchen? She straightened up to better confront him. His eyes had flecks of gold. One sip of champagne would do that to you; make you see all the sparkle in the world.

She clutched the bottle to her chest. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

He slipped off his suit jacket, revealing a gorgeous garnet lining, and draped it over a chair. Sofia’s mother owned a fabric shop and Sofia had her eye for quality.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I used to be a waiter.”

So what? Hadn’t everyone?

Over her protests, he confiscated the bottle of champagne. Then she watched as he expertly poured eight glasses with a sure hand, not spilling one precious drop. Those brown hands...the nails were clean and clipped, but there was no mistaking them for the hands of a gentleman. If he applied even the slightest pressure, the thick green bottle might shatter.

“How many glasses do you need me to fill?” he asked.

“I don’t need you to do anything,” Sofia replied. “I’d love for you to join the party and enjoy your evening.”

She couldn’t drop the show of indignation. She had employees to impress. He glanced up at her. Brown eyes like rum swirling into a glass.

“Fifty,” she said. “Plus an extra ten. You never know.”

“Well, line ’em up.”

Melissa handed him bottle after bottle. Ericka loaded up the trays. Sofia stood to the side, watching her team and this stranger work quietly and efficiently together. The door swung open again. A young guy, a lawyer-in-the-making type, poked his head in. “What are you doing in here? Everyone’s looking for you.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m done!”

Sofia inspected his work. All sixty champagne flutes were filled to equal height, ready to go. He reached for his jacket. On his way out, he turned to her and said pointedly, “You’re welcome.”

She shrugged. He wasn’t worth sparring with—because for sure she’d lose. Her staff, though, cheered the unlikely hero.

“Give me a break!” Sofia groaned. “He poured champagne!”

“But he did it with style!” Melissa declared.

“Let’s stay on schedule,” Sofia said. “Ericka, have the waiters serve the host and the guest of honor first.”

Her troops went out and returned with news. “You won’t believe it! Mr. I-Used-To-Be-A-Waiter? He’s the guest of honor. He’s out there giving a speech. This party is for him.”

Sofia popped a crab cake in her mouth. Interesting. He must have been nervous and slumming in the kitchen was his way to take the edge off.

“That’s so cool, don’t you think?” Melissa said.

There was no time to think. The kitchen door swung open again and this time a woman burst in. She was stunning with a caramel complexion and cheekbones that ought to be insured, but her features were distorted. Tears streaming down her cheeks made tar of her mascara. “I need a drink! Give me something, anything.”

Sofia braced herself. What roller-coaster ride was this?

Melissa offered her a bottle of water. The woman huffed. “Do I look like I need water?”

Sofia sent her employees away and took over. She grabbed a bottle of Patrón and a couple of glasses and guided the woman to a table by the kitchen’s fantastic bay windows. She poured generously and began her usual speech to calm unruly party guests. “I don’t know you or what you’re going through—”

“I’ll tell you.”

Oh, boy.

“He was only supposed to be with us a few weeks!” Her Brazilian accent produced petal-soft o’s and u’s. “I thought, why not have a little fun?”

Sofia knew instinctively who he was. She spotted him through the window out by the pool, sipping from a glass of champagne that he’d poured. He looked radiant in the fading September sun. His dark hair was cut short, barely visible, and it didn’t matter because his thick brows framed his face beautifully. But that was neither here nor there.

“I should’ve known they were going to recruit him. They all love him at the firm. He has a nickname and everything.”

“What’s the nickname?”

“What?” the woman asked.

Sofia flushed. “Never mind.”

“The Gun.”

Sofia poured some tequila for herself and wondered how he might’ve earned it. It couldn’t have been looks alone.

The woman read her mind. “He’s that good.”

Okay, then.

“They asked him to stay and he said yes. Things were great between us. We had this amazing connection, so I figured—”

“You figured wrong.” Sofia didn’t need GPS to figure out where this story was heading.

The woman slammed her glass on the marble-top table. Tequila flew everywhere.

Sofia reached for a napkin and wiped up the mess. The hostess was really fond of her antique furniture.

“I’ve seen him.” Sofia pointed out the window, but “The Gun” was no longer out there. “The man is a shot of rum and he went straight to your head. But you can’t afford to fall apart like this. You work with these people, and you’ll have to face them all on Monday. Mess up and I promise you the catty bitches out there won’t ever let you live it down. And I’m not talking about the women.”

Sofia assumed the silence that followed her little speech was a well-earned response. Then it stretched out a beat too long and something in the way the woman gripped her glass warned her that they were no longer alone.

How much had he heard?

The woman rose from the table, brushed tequila droplets off her dress and strode out of the kitchen without uttering a word.

Sofia sat with her back to the door and didn’t move until she heard it creak shut and she was certain he was gone. When you thought about it, she’d done him a favor—a big one. Life had a way of leveling the score.

So, Mr. Gun...you’re welcome.

Chapter 2

Five months later...

Jon had expected nothing until she walked in. Then, suddenly, his morning burst open with possibilities. After a glance around the auditorium, she picked a seat near him. Was it coincidence or the might of his will? He watched her drop her massive purse on one of the three empty seats between them, effectively erecting a wall. She crossed her golden-brown legs and went about the careful business of removing her sunglasses. Her profile was partially obstructed by a cloud of reddish-brownish curls flowing past her shoulders, but he made out the fringe of her lashes, the upward curve of her nose and a carefully drawn mouth.

It was going to be a lovely day.

“Please rise for Judge Antoine Roland.”

Jon rose. He couldn’t shake creeping déjà vu. Had they met before and where?

Judge Roland welcomed the drowsy assembly to the Miami-Dade County jury pool. After a reminder of the importance of jury duty in the great scheme of American democracy, he led the assembly in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. When he was done, some applauded—but not too many. The judge exited the auditorium as solemnly as he had entered. With that over, the oddly familiar woman sat and mumbled, “Let’s get this over with.”

He took it as an opening. “That’s the spirit.”

She looked his way, as if seeing him for the first time. Another announcement stopped him from introducing himself.

“Please fill out the jury questionnaire as best you can,” a clerk said through the piercing feedback of a microphone. “Don’t lose it. You’ll have to hand it to the bailiff when you’re called. And, if you’re eligible, don’t forget to request a reimbursement form. It’s only fifteen dollars, but times are hard. In the meantime, enjoy the movie. Julia Roberts—she’s always fun. The snack bar is open. Plus, there’s the quiet room if you prefer to read. All in all, it’s going to be a long day, folks! So why not make a friend?”

She immediately shot to her feet. Jon figured he’d scared her away, but she only went as far as the front desk to request the forms. Then for five minutes or so, she sat quietly, brows drawn, filling in each document using a pen retrieved from the depths of her bottomless purse. It was a fountain pen with some weight to it. The ink was a brilliant indigo blue. When she was done, she carefully replaced the pen’s cap, and he noticed her fingers, long and slim with deep red lacquered nails.

She turned in one form, kept the other, returned to her seat and folded those beautiful hands on her lap. Without looking at him, she said, “You’re nosy.”

“Observant,” he said. “And so are you, but you’re better at it.”

She swiveled in her seat and studied him, her wide brown eyes taking him apart and stitching him back together. He waited, counting the seconds for her to draw her conclusions. Women either loved him or hated him. There was never any middle ground. If she fell into the wrong camp, he had ways to drag her across the line.

Her eyes narrowed. “Have we...?”

“Slept together?” he asked. “I don’t think so. I would’ve remembered.”

If he was hoping to rattle her, it didn’t work.

“I remember you,” she said drily.

There was little evidence that the memory was a pleasant one.

“I knew we’d met before,” he said. “Now clue me in. It’s been driving me crazy.”

She reached into her purse for earbuds and plugged them into her phone. “Sorry. Not trying to be rude, but all I want is to get through jury duty in peace.”

“You heard the clerk. Let’s be friends. My name is Jon—in case you’d forgotten.”

“I have enough friends.”

“Your friends are not like me.” He got up and buttoned his suit jacket. “I’ll get us coffee. Then you can tell me the story of us.”

She surprised him by rising to her feet. Even on impressively high heels—the sexiest pumps he’d seen in a while—she only reached his chin. “I can get my own coffee.”

“Let’s each get our own coffee together,” he proposed. “My treat.”

She grunted and took the lead. He happily followed, feeling like a winner. In a room full of dull and disgruntled people, she had brought light and something else that he needed: a challenge. Ten minutes in, he didn’t know her name or their shared history. He was going to have to work for it.

The snack bar offered Cuban coffee, Cuban toast, Cuban breakfast pastries and a Cuban breakfast special priced at $3.99. While they waited in line, he asked her what she’d like.

“Coffee with lots of milk. But don’t worry. I’ll order.”

“I’m not worried.”

The woman at the register took one look at him and made a suggestion. “American coffee?”

“No,” he said. “Un cortadito y un café con leche bien claro.”

He paid and stuffed a five-dollar bill in the tip jar. She watched him with an amused smile.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Do you really speak Spanish? Or just know how to order coffee?”

He wanted to stay on topic. “You were about to tell me how we met.”

“No, I wasn’t,” she said. “If you can’t remember, it’s best to leave it in the past.”

“Who said that? Aristotle?”

The cashier tapped on the glass partition to get his attention. Their order was ready. Jon grabbed both cups and held hers up and out of reach. “Here you go...” He gave her a chance to fill in the blank.

She folded her arms across her chest, her generous chest. “My name is Sofia.”

The name didn’t ring any bells.

“Nice to meet you again, Sofia.” He handed over her coffee. “Should we check out the quiet room?”

“Too much quiet and I’ll start crying,” she said wearily. “Let’s just find a place to sit.”

Slot machines in Vegas weren’t as loud as those going off in his mind.

She led him to the far end of the auditorium to an empty row of chairs under a window. Sunlight exposed the dust in the air, like so many microscopic angels. They sat closer this time, shoulders touching, and he wondered what she’d have to cry about. Instead, he asked why she’d filled out a wage reimbursement form.

She shot him a look. Her brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She was very lovely.

“You are observant,” she said.

“We’ve established that.” It was no mystery. She’d filled out two forms and he’d filled only one.

“My time is worth money. That’s why. Not that it’s your business.”

“We’re talking fifteen dollars for an eight-hour day, right? You’ve got to be worth more than that.”

He was aware that he sounded like an elitist ass. Fifteen dollars was plenty for anyone who needed it. As the clerk had said, times were hard. But her sunglasses were Tom Ford, and that enormous purse was Louis Vuitton.

“I’m self-employed,” she said. “And to be honest, I’ve got a couple of toll violations. The state of Florida might as well pay for them.”

He laughed. She was a hustler. He could fall in love with this girl.

“You know what?” she snapped. “I hope you get stuck in jury duty all week.”

“Not going to happen. They won’t pick me.”

“Why not?” She took a sip of coffee. “Are you a felon? If you tell them, they’ll let you go home. It’s unfortunate, but it’s the law.”

Jon carefully lifted the lid of his mini Styrofoam cup and blew on the frothy surface. “Do I look like a felon?”

“Honestly?”

Jon had no illusions. His bulk intimidated some. His weathered face didn’t hide that he’d been punched more than a few times. An ex once told him that his expensive clothes only sharpened his rough edges. He gestured to the form lying flat on her lap. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

A typical jury questionnaire had more information than any online dating profile, and Jon liked to have all the facts up front.

She brought her cup to her lips to hide a smile. “I haven’t fallen for that since ever.”

“You can trust me,” he said.

“Before coffee I don’t trust my own mother,” she said.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his form, folded in squares. She hesitated, then snatched it from his hands. He took note of the things she chose to read.

“Jonathan Gunther. Thirty-two. Single. No kids. Attorney, criminal defense...”

She stopped reading and glanced up at him.

“They never pick lawyers,” he said with a wink. “We can turn a shoplifting case into a constitutional crisis.”

“Criminal defense?”

“Is that going to be a problem?” he asked. “I won’t bring my clients home.”

“You’re the problem,” she said with a smile.

That smile could light up the world, Jon thought. “Your turn.”

She handed over her form, but he didn’t take it. “Why don’t you tell me what’s there?”

She pressed her lips together. “Let’s see... Sofia Silva. Twenty-nine. Event planner.”

“A party girl?” he asked.

“I’m an entrepreneur, an award-winning small business owner.” She frowned. “You have a strange way of making friends.”

“I thought you had enough friends. I put us on another track.”

“Don’t. You’re wasting your time.”

“Why?” he asked. “Married? Kids?”

She read from the questionnaire as if she’d forgotten what she’d written. He knew it was all to avoid making eye contact. “No kids—yet. One significant other.”

Jon took another sip of coffee. Normally, this would be his cue to back off. But she’d stirred things up, and there was no quick way to calm those things down.

The clerk assembled a panel, calling out numbers like lottery picks. One by one, those selected gathered their things and stumbled out of the room. The room fell silent again with Julia Roberts’s laughter for pleasant background noise.

“Why defend criminals?” she asked.

“Criminals are just people who’ve made bad choices.”

“Or they’re selfish and stupid people with complete disregard for others.”

“Callous disregard,” Jon said. “Sounds better.”

She moaned. “You really are a lawyer.”

“One of the best.” He handed her a business card. “Next time a client tries to sue you, you’ll be glad you know me.”

She laughed at the joke and took the card. Another panel was assembled and time passed. It was easy talking with her. She was sharp; nothing he said went untested. But a pattern was emerging. She’d fire questions at him but carefully avoided revealing anything about herself.

“You’ve tried cases at this courthouse?” she asked.

“No. Federal court.”

“Are your clients killers?”

“Alleged killers, you mean,” he said. “And no, they’re not. They’re alleged Ponzi schemers, tax evaders and embezzlers.”

“Can you name some of your clients?”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?”

“The one-sided conversation. I invented that trick.”

“All I’ve done is ask a few questions,” she said defensively. “If you weren’t so careful, you wouldn’t mind.”

“Careful? No one’s ever accused me of that.”

“Not an accusation,” she said. “An observation. You’re careful with words.”

“I’m good with words.”

“You’re not at all modest,” she observed.

“Not even a little,” he said. “I’ll note that we have a past that you’re trying to bury. So who’s being careful here?”

She held him in her soft brown gaze. “But if you can’t remember our past, does it exist?”

“And if a tree fell in the forest...?”

The clerk returned to the microphone, this time to announce an extended lunch break. He invited her out to eat.

“I’m going to pick up a salad at the medical campus across the street,” she said. “You’re welcome to come with.”

They rode the elevator to the courthouse ground floor. Outside, the aroma rising from the hot-dog carts made him nostalgic for New York City. With a hand on her elbow, he steered her across the street toward the parking lot. His Porsche was parked in an open lot reserved for jurors. Its steel-blue glaze matched the hazy Florida sky.

She yanked her arm free. “We can walk to the salad place. It’s not far.”

“We’re not going to the salad place. I heard there are seafood restaurants along the river not far from here.”

She came to a full stop in the middle of the street. “I’m not getting in your car.”

She really didn’t trust him. He wondered what he’d done to her? And why couldn’t he remember? He was sharper than this.

“I’ll bring you back in one piece,” he promised from the sidewalk. “How else will you collect your fifteen bucks?”

She stood rooted in place, stubborn. A patrol car turned a corner and signaled a warning for her to move out of the way. This was her chance to escape; all she’d have to do was turn and run. They locked eyes, engaging in a mental arm-wrestling match. Another whirl of the police siren propelled her into motion. Picking up the pace, she made her way toward him. He watched in quiet fascination as the wind tossed her hair and her body moved under a fitted blue dress.

“Let’s go to Garcia’s,” she said. “It’s the best.”

* * *

He let her take charge at the restaurant. She chose the table on the terrace overlooking the bloated river. She ordered on his behalf with the assumption that he, the guy with the questionable Spanish skills, would not know how to order Latin food. He watched her come alive in the fresh air, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, eyes glistening, gesticulating madly as she talked. Over ceviche and cerveza, she kept the conversation light and he played along. At some point, she lifted the weight of her hair off the nape of her neck to better feel the breeze. When she leaned forward to reach for a napkin, the deep V-neck of her dress revealed more than she might have wanted—and he remembered everything.

The party.

Champagne.

The woman in the kitchen.

That evening, she’d worn her hair in a knot and was dressed plainly in a black shirt and pants. She’d managed to calm his ex down. And Viviana wasn’t a woman who was easily calmed. More importantly, she’d compared him to a shot of rum. He would’ve gone for whiskey.

No wonder he’d forgotten! That whole week had been emotionally charged. He’d made the decision to move to Miami only minutes after receiving the offer for a lateral move as a partner. He’d acted on his instincts. And when Viv tried to turn a summer thing into a more permanent one, those same instincts told him to nip that in the bud. Still, even during that windstorm, he’d noticed this woman bent over a table, tense over having to pour from a respectable bottle of champagne. The opening of her loose blouse had offered the same gorgeous view as now. How could he have walked away?

Sofia pointed to a pelican perched on a dock, its damp feathers coated in mud. “Poor little guy.”

“I have a question for you,” he said.

“Yes?”

“How do you like your rum? With Coke, ice or like I like it, neat?”

She went still. “You remember.”

“Every little thing.” He leaned back in his seat. “You never thanked me for helping out with the champagne.”

“I never asked for your help,” she said evenly.

“And women wonder why chivalry is dead.”

“You weren’t being chivalrous. You were showing off.”

“Okay,” he said. “You got me.”

“Just curious. How’s your friend?”

“She’s fine,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about her.”

She shook her head as if she’d lost all faith in mankind. “You never thanked me for defusing that bomb.”

He thanked her with a tip of an imaginary hat. “You have my undying gratitude.”

She shrugged a slender shoulder. “Just doing my job.”

Now he better understood her reticence. “You think I’m a jerk,” he said. “A woman cried and you bought the whole act.”

“Was it an act?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said. “Does that make me a jerk?”

“I don’t know what it makes you. I don’t know you that well.”

He leaned forward. “Let’s get to know each other, Sofia. Really well.”

She mimicked his move, resting her arms on the table and leaning in. “That’s not going to happen, Jon.”

“How significant is this ‘other’ of yours?” he asked.

If he’d taken a second to think, he might not have asked the question, not so bluntly anyway. But now that it was out there, he had to know.

“Well...” She scooped ceviche with a cracker.

“I’m listening.” He wiped his hands on his cloth napkin and gave her his full attention.

“We’re engaged.”

The blow left him winded—and inexplicably angry. “That’s pretty significant. Why didn’t you say that earlier?”

“That option wasn’t on the jury questionnaire. It was a choice between Married, Single or Significant Other.”

“You could’ve penned it in,” he said.

She gave him a quizzical look. “For the benefit of the court?”

“You’re not wearing a ring,” he observed.

She dropped the cracker and drew her hands onto her lap. “I don’t wear it every day. It wouldn’t be practical. It’s really big.”

“Oh, is it?” he asked.

He’d hammered every syllable. Then he watched with some satisfaction—no, he watched with life-sustaining satisfaction as color drained from her cheeks. She raised her glass to her lips, took a couple of gulps of beer and once she’d regained her composure, she suggested they leave.

“I don’t think there’s time for seafood pasta. Maybe we should head back.”

“There’s always time for seafood pasta.”

Their waiter arrived with a fragrant bowl of linguine loaded with shrimp, clams, mussels and calamari. He had to be the luckiest man alive.

There was time for pasta followed by better coffee than they could hope to get at the courthouse snack bar. There was also time for a slow stroll back to his car and for more questions.

“Why don’t you tell me more about what you do?” he asked.

“If I thought you’d believe it, I’d say it’s all very glam and fun.”

“Then tell me how it really is.”

“Long hours. Demanding clients. Some days it’s a three-ring circus.”

“Why do you do it?”

He held open the car door for her. She stopped and gave him a thoughtful answer. “When everything comes together, it’s like magic. Then you blink and it’s over. You’ve got to pack up the circus.”

“But you know you’ve made magic.”

She smiled and ducked into the car.

Jon drove slowly, which was against his very nature, in an effort to stretch their time alone together. They made it back to the courthouse just in time. His plum spot in the parking lot was taken. He squeezed into a space between a boxy Scion and a sporty BMW.

“Look at that,” she said. “We’re parked next to each other.”

He turned to the Scion.

She poked his arm. “That’s what you think of me?”

The BMW then... It was a white convertible with a black cloth top. It suited her. And then it hit him how badly he’d wanted to impress her with his credentials, career and yes, his car. He had to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“I really am a show-off.”

It didn’t take long for her to connect the dots. She opened the passenger door. “Yeah, you are.”

* * *

He blinked and it was over. The minute they returned to the jury room, she was selected for a panel. He’d swear her eyes clouded with regret. “It was nice meeting you again, Jonathan-Gunther-defense-attorney-single-no-kids.”

It was great that she’d memorized his stats, but that goodbye sounded too final. “How can I get in touch with you?”

She shook her head, lifted that huge purse and left the room.

* * *

Jon exited the courthouse at three-thirty without having ever been selected for a panel. He’d spent the afternoon in the quiet room replying to emails, but mostly counting the minutes until he could camp out in the parking lot and ambush her. Now he skipped down the courthouse steps and stopped short when seeing from across the street that her car was gone, and his car looked lonely for a friend.

The note tucked under his windshield wiper didn’t catch his eye until he’d started the engine. He got out and grabbed it. Two words beautifully penned on the back of his business card in that unmistakable indigo ink: Thank you.

Chapter 3

Sofia wasn’t clear when chatting had crossed into flirting, or even how he’d roped her in, but here she was, tied up in knots. The man was magnetic—clever, witty and fun. When the time had come to leave him, she couldn’t pull herself away. Then the case for which she’d been picked was dismissed. She had the choice of leaving early (forfeiting her fifteen bucks) or returning to the jury pool. Her brain opted to leave; the rest of her wanted to rush back into the auditorium to be with him. Although she’d managed to follow the other elated jurors out the door, she couldn’t resist leaving something behind. He must think her nuts, going on about her engagement one minute and leaving him a note the next.

She was nuts.

Driving in circles, finding her way out of the parking lot, she wondered what had gotten into her. The first time they’d met, she was able to dismiss him pretty fast. But things had been different then. She had really been engaged, and now she was only pretending to be. Not pretending, she reasoned. She and Franco had privately ended their engagement. They simply hadn’t gone public with that information yet.

Who was she kidding? Nothing about their situation was simple.

She drummed the steering wheel. What to do now? It was only two thirty. She had a meeting at five. Leila Amis, a Realtor and friend, had recruited her to throw an open house for a new listing in Miami Beach. Part of her business had always focused on providing local Realtors with the services they needed. With the influx of foreign investors, Miami’s luxury real-estate market was thriving. Sofia was being offered more and more work. She could head back to her office to start on a concept or...

Was Jonathan Gunther built like a boxer under that suit? Looked like it.

For the love of God, Sofia!

In need of a lifeline, she called Leila, who barely gave her a chance to say hi. “Hey! I know we agreed to meet at the house.” Her voice poured through the car speakers. “Any chance you can swing by the agency later to pick me up? My car is in the shop. It broke down on I-95 this morning. They towed it away. It was a mess.”

Sofia looked up and around to better situate herself. She was at the junction of I-95, and all she’d have to do was head south to Brickell. “Any chance we can do this now? I’ve got time to kill.”

“In that case,” Leila said, “I’m going to put you to work.”

* * *

Brickell was two things: a trendy neighborhood lined with luxury condo buildings and the center of Miami’s financial district, if one in fact existed. Joggers, dog walkers and professionals in business suits mingled on the sidewalks. The afternoon sunlight set the buildings’ mirrored surfaces on fire.

Leila and her boyfriend, Nick, ran a boutique real-estate agency from one of the newer buildings. Sofia pulled up and spotted Leila out front chatting with the doorman. In a former life, Leila used to be a pageant queen and it showed in the way she walked. Sofia watched as she approached and elegantly lowered herself into the passenger seat. She wore a fitted cream jumpsuit that flattered her deep brown complexion.

“First stop,” she said, “the downtown Hyatt. I have to meet with a client—five minutes, tops. Then we’ll head out to South Beach—can’t wait for you to see the listing. The photos I sent you don’t do it justice. Then maybe we could stop somewhere for drinks? Catch up a little.”

Sofia eased back into the slow-moving traffic. “Or we could shop for a new car. Don’t you think it’s time for an upgrade?”

Leila had been driving the same Mazda Miata for as long as Sofia had known her. She’d won it at a pageant, but her sentimental attachment to the thing bordered on ridiculous.

Leila quickly switched topics. “Took a day off?”

“Nope. Jury duty.”

Leila made a face. “How did that go?”

Sofia answered without thinking. “I had a good time.”

“At jury duty?”

Sofia scrambled to correct herself. “I had...a good book.”

Leila was quiet for a while, messaging clients. They arrived at the Hyatt and Sofia waited in the car, listening to the radio, for at least fifteen minutes. Leila wrapped up her meeting and they headed out to Miami Beach.

On the causeway, Sofia lowered the convertible top. The bay stretched out on either side of the strip. As the breeze tossed her hair, she felt a tinge of excitement. She was eager to visit this house. She’d thought the photos were spectacular and had instantly fallen for the house’s modern design and open layout. But Leila was right: there was nothing like touring a house to get a feel for it. Her father owned a construction company and all her life she’d toured homes at various stages of development. Even the most cookie-cutter of homes had a personality. Which reminded her of something. Nick and Leila had been renovating a house in Bayshore for the better part of a year. Some days it was all Leila could talk about.

“How’s progress on Barbie’s dream house?” Sofia asked, knowing she’d regret it.

“There’ve been some delays getting permits for the garage,” Leila replied. “It’s pissing Nick off. But did I tell you about the custom furniture?”

“Many times.”

Leila squealed. “I get a sneak peek of the living room furniture tomorrow.”

“Good luck sleeping tonight!” Sofia teased.

“I’ve got a question for you, smart-ass,” Leila said. “When’s the wedding? Forget car shopping. Why aren’t we out shopping for a gown right now?”

“Did my mom put you up to this?” Sofia asked.

“You put me up to this. What kind of maid of honor would I be if I didn’t ask?”

Sofia’s cousin, Mercedes, was her official maid of honor; Sofia’s mother had insisted on it. Leila had agreed to sign on as the de facto maid of honor. But none of that mattered anyway, since there’d be no wedding. If Leila wanted to plan a wedding so badly, maybe she should drop Nick a hint.

“I thought you wanted a summer wedding,” Leila persisted. “Summer is around the corner.”

“A summer wedding was a dumb idea,” Sofia said. “I’d melt in the heat.”

“What do you think about Christmas?” Leila asked.

“I’m not thinking, Leila,” Sofia said. “I’m focusing on my parents’ anniversary party.”

That was her go-to excuse, but a lame one. Everyone who knew her knew damn well that she could plan ten major events and a kids’ tea party all at the same time.

“When’s that again?” Leila asked.

“Next month,” Sofia said, tense. “Then I’m free.”

“Good.”

Leila’s phone chimed again. She typed a text message and said, “By the way, a client is waiting for us at the house. I promised him an early look at this property before it hits the market. Oh, and I’m taking Brie to a Heat game next week. It’s her birthday. Wanna come? Make it a girls’ night?”

Brie was Leila’s assistant, who’d been with her through tough times and now, it seemed, really good times.

“Sure,” Sofia replied absently. “Girls’ night!”

“We’re almost there,” Leila said. “Head north on Alton.”

“Will your client mind my being there?” Sofia asked.

“No, he’ll love it,” Leila said. “Hotshot lawyer. You know the type.”

Sofia shrugged off the cold hand of dread. Don’t be paranoid, she told herself. Miami was crawling with hotshot lawyers.

“Last house on the block. Pull up to the gate.”

They were still some feet away, but Sofia could see the property walled off from the busy street and overflowing with tropical flowers. She let out a low whistle. “It’s like an oasis.”

“Go ahead and park at the curb behind that Porsche,” Leila said. “I don’t have the clicker for the gate.”

Oh, no, no, no, no, no! Sofia hit the breaks and came to an abrupt stop, sending Leila lurching forward and her purse tumbling to the car floor.

“Hey!” Leila cried.

What were the damn odds? When she’d left the note on the windshield of that same Porsche, the plan was to never see the owner again. She’d made fuzzy choices all day, but on that point she’d been very clear.

“You know what?” Sofia said, trying to buy time.

Leila smoothed her straight black hair. “What?”

“I should go.”

“Go where? We’ve got work to do! I want to hear your ideas for the open house.”

“I don’t feel so well.”

“Have you eaten today?”

At first glance, the Porsche appeared to be sitting empty, but now the driver’s door swung open and Jonathan Gunther—all six feet and however many inches of him—got out.

I’m going to lose it today.

“That’s my client,” Leila whispered. “You’re welcome.”

Sofia shrunk behind the wheel. With the top down, there was nowhere else to hide. Drivers stuck behind her were honking, and Leila nudged her in the ribs.

“Sofia, you’re holding up traffic.”

Other than pushing Leila out of her car, what choice did she have? She pulled up to the curb but refused to cut off the engine.

Jon came around to the passenger side and leaned down low. He flashed them the smile of a Viking conqueror.

“Jon,” Leila said. “This is my friend Sofia Silva. She’s a real-estate event planner. Sofia is planning our open house.”

Those brown eyes pinned her in place. “Hi, Sofia. I’m Jon.”

Sofia nodded and said nothing.

“She’s not feeling so well,” Leila explained.

Sofia gripped the steering wheel. When did Leila become such a chatterbox?

“Something you ate?” Jon asked innocently.

“I bet she hasn’t eaten all day. This woman lives on coffee.” Leila frowned. “I think she should come inside.”

“She absolutely should.”

Sofia had the feeling of having walked onto the set of a comedy sketch. The best thing, the smart thing, would be to speed off, leaving these two jokers in the dust. And yet, when Jon held open the car door for Leila, and she stepped out and gave him the briefest of hugs, Sofia felt a twinge of...envy.

“You’d be doing me a favor if you stayed,” Jon said. “I need a pair of objective eyes.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Leila said. “Sofia’s already in love with the place. She thinks it’s an oasis.”

Like any true oasis, Sofia thought, it was proving to be an illusion.

“Sofia, are you in love?” Jon asked.

“No. I don’t fall that easily.”

“Good. I’d hate it if you did.”

“And I’d love it if we got around to seeing the house,” Leila said. “That’s what we’re here for. Come on, Sofia! Let’s go!”

Chapter 4

While Leila unlocked the gate, Jon couldn’t get over his luck. Why were they playing this game? He wasn’t sure. Jon was taking his cues from her, and she’d turned white with panic at seeing him again. This told him something: their encounter hadn’t been casual. It hadn’t been for him and now, obviously not for her, either.

The gate gave way to a lush green space filled with colorful flowers. A compact white house with modern lines and wide glass panels was tucked deep in the yard. Jon paid attention as Leila listed the pros and cons. Pro: the Alton Road location placed it at only a short bike, bus or Vespa ride away from Lincoln Road, the clubs and the beach. Con: the Alton Road location and its legendary congestion and chaos, which turned off most buyers.

“I mean if a kid kicks a ball into the street and chases after it, that kid will get flattened by a Lamborghini,” Leila said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“Is this your best sales pitch?” Jon asked.

“I’m looking out for your best interests.”

A tax attorney at his firm had referred him to Leila’s agency. Jon enjoyed working with her. She was patient, never pushy and committed to finding him something reasonable and affordable. They were becoming fast friends.

“What did I tell you about being so ethical?” he teased.

The wide front door was unremarkable except for the exotic grain of the wood. Jon took hold of the industrial hardware. “I like this.”

“I thought you would,” Leila said. “This house is made for a man like you.”

“Meaning?”

The question came from Sofia who had trailed behind, admiring the spare landscaping as if lifted from the Luxembourg Gardens. Jon loved her curiosity—where he was concerned.

“It’s not quite the bachelor pad you need,” Leila explained. “But it has the look, you know?”

Jon wasn’t looking for a pad, but a sanctuary. He worked long hours and needed someplace comfortable and calm to come home to. He had a good feeling about this house. The street noise was an issue, but the high-impact windows would block out most of it. He didn’t have a kid to worry about, and he knew to look both ways before crossing the street, whether or not he was chasing after a ball.

Leila let them in and went ahead, switching on lights and pulling back drapes. Jon waited for Sofia who was, it now seemed obvious, deliberately trailing behind.

“It’s been a couple of hours,” he said. “Missed me?”

“For the record,” she said, stepping up to him, “I didn’t know she was meeting you.”

“For the record, I know you’re not too upset about it.” He was over the moon about it. He’d thought she’d slipped away, and had considered asking his firm for the name of the event-planning business that had thrown his welcome party. Which reminded him of something. “Since when are you a real-estate event planner?”

“Since always!” she snapped.

“Come in, guys,” Leila said. “Feel free to look around, ask questions.”

Most Miami houses looked the same to Jon. A large main room generally opened to some kind of back patio. This one had clean uncluttered lines, and it was kind of sexy. The floors were the color of porcelain. A glass spiral staircase led to the second floor. What struck him was the wall of windows, two stories high, which framed the yard and pool. Midnight swim, anyone?

Sofia walked past him. “Does it come fully furnished?”

Jon gave the living room furniture a second look. The chocolate leather couch looked delicious. A glass coffee table caught the light of the starburst chandelier hanging above it.

“Look who’s suddenly interested in furniture!” Leila observed.

“Just curious,” Sofia said.

“The furniture is not included.” Leila explained the house was staged for effect.

Then she led them into the kitchen. The narrow space was made bright with pale wood cabinets and strategically placed recessed lighting. Leila pointed out the golden Italian marble counter. “This definitely comes with the house.”

“Gorgeous,” Jon said. He watched Sofia run a hand over the glossy countertop. The woman was gorgeous.

“You have a good eye,” Leila said. “Most men don’t.”

“Can’t take my eyes off it.”

Sofia glanced over her shoulder at him and quickly turned away. Her cheeks had that rich wine color he liked so much.

“This is where you’ll make breakfast for your women friends,” Sofia said innocently. “Since this is meant to be a bachelor pad and all.”

“I’ve got a Keurig,” he replied. “They’ll get coffee. Or tea.”

“Coffee or tea? Wow!” Sofia exclaimed. “You must sweep them off their feet.”

“I do all right.”

“Let’s check out the yard,” Leila said. “It’s killer.”

The kitchen opened to the yard with a framed glass door. It seemed to Jon the entire rear facade of the house was glass, a smoky glass that revealed nothing. The yard was modern day tropical. There were some grass and palm trees along the property wall, but mostly a slate-gray tile extended right up to the edge of a long rectangular pool. A “negative edge” pool, as Leila described it. Jon watched Sofia walk over to a canopy daybed and pull back the gauzy white cotton curtains. When drawn tight, he imagined they offered complete seclusion.

Sofia sank into the soft mattress. “Is this included?”

“None of it!” Leila snapped. “None of it is included.”

Sofia raised her hands. “Okay! Okay!”

Jon liked their chemistry, or lack thereof. They clearly had a bond that could take a blow or two.

“I’m thinking about a sunset affair,” Sofia said. “For the open house, I mean. Sangria at sunset.”

“Now you’re talking,” Leila said.

“Can I come?” Jon asked.

Leila’s phone rang. Before answering, she said, “Buy this house and you could invite us over for sangrias.”

Leila wandered off with the phone glued to her ear. Jon joined Sofia at the daybed. He wanted her opinion on the place. Did she like it? Did she swim? Would she come over for brunch? Would she stay the night?

He asked none of those questions, taken aback by her serious expression.

“Isn’t this too much house for you?” she asked.

“For me alone, maybe,” he said. “Don’t you like it?”

“I’m not the one you should ask that question.”

“Oh, yes. I forgot,” he said. “You’re off-the-market.”

She got up, crossed the yard to the pool. She stood at the water’s edge, looking down. He joined her there and said the one true thing he could think of.

“I missed you after you were gone.”

This time, in her haste to escape him, she nearly fell into the pool. Jon caught her just before she went plunging into the deep end. She clung to him, her hands gripping his shoulders. He could feel her heart.

“I got you,” he whispered.

She nodded, as though accepting this as fact.

Leila came skipping back. “That was Nick. He’s on his way over. How about we check out the bedrooms? The master suite is sexy.”

Chapter 5

Two in the morning and Sofia was smarting over the fact that Jon hadn’t remembered her right away. She got out of bed, went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. It had taken him half the day to figure out when and where they’d met. Meanwhile, it had taken her only a few seconds. Her life had changed so drastically since their first meeting, it would have been understandable if she’d forgotten all about him. And yet, she hadn’t.

Sofia went back to bed. She crawled onto the wobbly air mattress in her brother’s spare bedroom—the very symbol of how much her life had changed. After she’d caught her fiancé sexting with some faceless girl, then finding out that the faceless girl was only one in many, she’d had to move out of their condo in Aventura and in with her older brother, Miguel, who was still in a post-divorce funk.

Although months had passed, Sofia still had nausea when she thought about the night her life had fallen apart, which was often. She’d returned home after a late meeting with a client. The lights of their condo had been dimmed, bringing the sparkling water and city views into focus. The TV was on mute and a welcoming silence flowed through the rooms. She heard Franco moving around in the guest bathroom.

Exhausted, she’d stepped out of her heels, waddled over to the couch and curled up with her favorite throw pillow. The TV remote was on the far side of the coffee table next to Franco’s keys, wallet and phone. She’d stared at the remote, willing it to fly into her hands. When Franco’s phone started buzzing and chiming, her eyes had been too dry from her failed attempt at mind control to focus on the nude pic that had popped up in a chain of text messages, small as a postage stamp. Nonetheless, she’d seen it.

The bathroom door swung open. Franco came out, chuckling to himself and murmuring in that sexy way that used to make her hot. “Someone is impatient.” He came trotting into the living room, still dressed for work in a striped shirt and a pair of black trousers. She thought of a zillion things to say, but her jaw was clenched tight and the words jammed in her throat.

Franco froze when he spotted her.

The phone chimed again, this time with a text message consisting of several emojis, one of which was a peach. And say what you wanted about Franco, the former high school football star had impeccable reflexes. He leaped over an upholstered ottoman and snatched the phone off the table. Sofia, though, couldn’t move. She and Franco had been adrift for some time, and yet she had not seen this coming. She sat perfectly still while all the love she’d ever had for the man drained from her heart.

* * *

That night, Sofia had driven straight to Leila’s place. Nick had answered the door. “She’s at a yoga or meditation class or something.”

Sofia checked the time on her phone. It was eight thirty. “You know what? I’ll just go.”

She’d felt silly showing up like that. She should’ve stayed home and dealt with Franco like an adult. Her phone hadn’t stopped ringing since she’d staged her walkout. It rang then. She hit the ignore button and silenced the ringer.

Nick gave her a quick once-over. “She won’t be long. Come in. I’ll open a bottle.”

Nick was good, luring her in with the promise of treats. “No, I shouldn’t—” Her phone buzzed in her hand, provoking a jolt of anger. The next thing she knew she was screaming at the thing. “Stop calling me!”

Nick’s blue eyes flashed. If he was judging her, though, there was no trace of it. He stepped aside and ushered her in. “What are you drinking? White or red?”

“Tequila.”

“You got it.”

Nick called Leila while pouring from a bottle of Patrón. “Sofia is here...Ten minutes?...Don’t worry...I love you.”

Sofia sat on a kitchen bar stool. “You guys still say ‘I love you’ on quick calls?”

She’d known Nick long before he and Leila were a thing. Sofia had worked with him on various projects. But the moment Leila had joined his team, it was clear to everyone that they were head over heels in love. But everyone had expected the infatuation to die down, especially after Nick moved away to New York for a year. And yet, here they were, almost two years later, happier than ever before.

Nick placed a glass before her. “We still do a lot of things.”

She took a gulp. The tequila went down smooth, but still she choked on it.

“Slow it down,” he said. “What’s going on with you?”

“Franco and I...”

Nick raised a hand. He didn’t seem interested in the salacious details. “Just tell me it’s over.”

“It’s over.” Sofia took a breath. Saying it made it true.

“Good,” Nick said.

The two men knew each other. Nick used to stop by Franco’s car dealership to check out the inventory. Sofia had always suspected they didn’t like each other much. What Nick said next confirmed it. “Sofia, Franco is an idiot.”

“No. I’m the idiot.”

“Why blame yourself?” Nick asked.

“Who else is there to blame?” she cried. “We were in trouble for months, for years, and I still forced him to propose.”

“You can’t force a man to do anything,” Nick said. “Besides, Leila said you two were wrong for each other.”

“She said that?” Sofia sat up straight.

“Leila admires you,” Nick said quietly. “She had a feeling something wasn’t right, but trusted you knew what you were doing.”

“Is that what you two do, cuddle up in bed and gossip about me?”

Nick shook his head. “Not in bed, no.”

Sofia frowned. She and Franco never gossiped. Even if she came home with a hot story, he didn’t indulge her.

“Why did you want to marry him so badly?” Nick asked.

Sofia hid her face with her hands and groaned. “We’d been together for so long. Since high school! It was the next logical step.”

“Forget logic. It either feels good or it doesn’t.” Nick took her glass and poured the rest of her tequila down the kitchen sink. “So what are you going to do now?”

“No clue. And you wasted some perfectly good booze.”

“If you need a place to stay for a few days or weeks, you’re welcome to crash with us.”

“I’m heartbroken, not homeless. But thanks.”

Leila burst through the door. “Sofia! Why didn’t you text me, let me know you were stopping by? I would’ve skipped yoga.” She joined Nick behind the kitchen counter and planted a kiss on his shoulder.

Nick and Leila made a ridiculously attractive couple. The brown-skinned beauty and the blue-eyed Canadian had had their share of problems, but they’d come out on the other side.

“Are you up for dessert? I made rum cake.” Leila reached into the liquor cabinet and produced a brown bottle. “With this!”

She held up the bottle of Barbancourt, Haitian rum. Sofia and Leila had roots on either side of the island of Hispaniola. Sofia’s dad was from the Dominican Republic and while growing up Sofia had visited frequently. Leila, however, had never been to Haiti. She tried to connect with her culture through food—although, not very successfully.

“Not tonight,” Sofia said. “Thanks.”

“Where’s the camera?” Leila asked Nick. “I want to show Sofia the new photos of the house.”

“Maybe now isn’t the best time,” Nick said.

Leila looked from Nick to Sofia. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong!” Sofia perked up. “Now is a great time. I’m up for it.”

“You sure?” Nick asked.

“Sure, I’m sure!”

Sofia was as surprised by her sudden reversal as anyone. She’d come fully prepared to confide in Leila, but something Nick had said held her back.

She admires you.

That night, she avoided Nick’s questioning gaze, as she continued to do for weeks.

* * *

Shielding her loved ones from the grim reality also became a priority. The following Sunday, she joined her parents at home for dinner. Her mother had lost some weight, as her cardiologist had recommended, and her floral dress she’d worn to church that morning hung loose on her. A massive heart attack and open-heart surgery had revived her ailing Catholic faith. Anyway, her mother had better news to share.

“Your dad and I want to do something special for our thirty-fifth anniversary. And we want you to organize it.”

“Dad wants this?”

The question came from Miguel. Sofia’s older brother entered the kitchen and stood before the open refrigerator as he’d done as a teen. It was inevitable. When they were home, they reverted to their most juvenile selves.

Miguel grabbed a can of soda from the fridge. “Knowing dad, he’d rather celebrate with the three b’s—beer, Buffalo wings and baseball.”

“He wants what I want,” Mom said.

“Man! You’ve got it good,” Sofia teased.

“It’s a big anniversary,” Mom said. She worked a knife through a block of queso blanco. “Plus, we’ve had a rough year.”

Sofia relived it all. Those long nights in the hospital when they weren’t sure she’d pull through had left them all depleted. Her mother was more of herself now, back at work at the shop and cooking Sunday dinners as usual, but with markedly less stamina. That was what worried Sofia, seeing her diminished that way.

Her mother looked up, wistful. “We need...something. You know?”

“Absolutely,” Sofia said.

Nothing was as cathartic as a good old-fashioned party with dinner, dancing and drinks—the whole shebang. It was what the family needed to turn the page.

“Look at this.” Her mother handed over her phone, the browser open to a Pinterest page. Sofia reviewed pins of venues, flowers, table settings, themes and dresses. “I’m doing it right this time.”

Her parents had eloped at the downtown courthouse. “Doing it right” would likely involve a priest.

“Can you afford all this, Mom?” Sofia asked.

Miguel dropped to the floor and held a plank position. “Can you afford Sofia?”

Her mother returned her attention to the stove, stirring a pan of paella. “I don’t buy crazy expensive purses and shoes like some people do. I’ve had the same Coach bag for the last three years and my Camry is a decade old. So, yes, you two, I can afford this.”

Sofia let the targeted criticism slide. Her parents worked hard and were financially sound. Her dad owned a construction company. Some years it had flourished, others it flailed. But since Miguel had joined the team, expanding operations and taking risks, business was good. Her mother ran a fabric shop downtown, and business had always been steady. Their house was paid off and their retirement secured, but they hadn’t traveled or taken a vacation in decades.

“What’s your budget?” Sofia asked.

“Five thousand dollars, and your services are free.”

Five grand didn’t get you much these days, but her mother didn’t have to know that.

“You brag about working magic for your clients. It’s time you do the same for your family.”

“Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel said, mid push-up. “Work your magic.”

“Just watch me,” Sofia said.

She took out her own phone and pulled up her calendar. “Your anniversary is the first Wednesday in April. We should schedule the party on the Friday or Saturday.”

“Saturday.”

“That’s three months away. We’re going to have to hustle. I’ll need you to be decisive. No mulling over fabrics and flowers for days. Okay?”

Sofia scrolled through Pinterest, pausing at a pin of a white-and-gold place setting. It was gaudy enough to satisfy her mother’s tastes while remaining tasteful.

“I want you and Franco to say a few words at the reception—as a couple.”

Sofia lowered the phone. “Why? Isn’t that Miguel’s job? He’s the oldest.”

“I’m depressed and divorced.” Miguel hopped to his feet. “Haven’t you heard?”

“You’re depressing,” Sofia said. “I know that much.”

“Leave your brother alone, will you?” her mother scolded. “Not everyone is as lucky as you and Franco. Where’s Franco, anyway?”

“Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel said evenly. “Where is Franco, anyway?”

She glared at him. “Busy. Work stuff.”

At the mention of Franco’s name, Sofia’s mask had nearly cracked. Her parents would not take the news of the breakup well. They were traditional. A married life was a settled life, in their opinion. Her mother, in particular, had had a hard time with Miguel’s divorce and she hadn’t even liked his wife. Sofia knew how her mother’s mind worked. Her illness and Miguel’s misfortune were signs the family was vulnerable, brittle, falling apart. The end of Sofia’s engagement would make it clear. Even Miguel, who knew the whole story, and who’d appeared sympathetic when she’d shown up at his door with an overnight bag, didn’t seem to be taking it too well now.

Sofia was sixteen when she and Franco met. Franco played ball with Miguel on weekends and could be counted on for Sunday dinner. As a result of their splitting up, the whole family would have to break up with him as well. That was going to be a tough sell.

“Too bad,” her mother said. “He loves my paella.”

Nobody loved her mother’s paella. Did it do the trick at the end of a long day? Sure. Did anyone wake up craving it? No. Was it technically paella? Not even close. Just some yellow rice with peas, peppers and cod tossed in—not necessarily heart healthy, either. Her mother wasn’t the fine Latina cook she thought herself to be. In fact, her mother wasn’t Latina at all. She was African American. At nineteen, Clarissa Ross fell in love with Antonio Silva, the smooth-talking Dominican boy who’d moved into the apartment down the hall from hers. Ten months later, she was pregnant. They got married and lived happily-ever-after. All that being said, her mofongo was off the charts and her chicken potpie was legendary.

“You and Franco represent the future of our family,” her mother said. “Can I count on you two to say a few words? Nothing fancy.”

“Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel chimed. “Nothing fancy. You and Franco can handle that.”

What was Miguel’s problem? And what was she going to tell her mother? Their family had no future? She wasn’t that cruel.

* * *

That Sunday, after dinner with her family, Sofia sat in her car for a long time thinking about the future. Had she been too quick to toss out the past and Franco with it? She drove to Aventura, back to the home she’d abandoned, where most of her clothes, her comfy pants and her favorite pillow had been left behind. It was time she and Franco had a talk.

He greeted her at the door, looking rumpled and contrite. They sat at the dining table. Franco rushed to apologize.

“None of those women meant anything to me.”

Women. Plural. Did he have to remind her that it wasn’t just one faceless girl, but legions?

“I never met any of them in real life,” he continued. “It was all for play. Something to do when I was bored.”

“So, I bored you.”

“No,” Franco said. “That’s not what I meant. Damn it, Sofia. I wish there was a way for me to make it all up to you.”

Sofia raised a hand to silence him. That silence stretched on forever. They sat at the table, not speaking, not even looking at each other. Sofia had promised herself that the breakup wouldn’t break her. But when finally she tried to speak, her voice buckled and failed. She took a breath and started again.

“We’re family,” she said.

Franco had been there for her the whole time her mother was in the hospital. He’d shown up early with coffee and returned after work. He’d brought her dinner, a change of clothes, whatever she needed. He ran errands for her dad. He’d been like...a brother.

Franco exhaled with relief. “We are family.”

“And if you ever need anything, call me.”

She stood, ready to leave, but not before retrieving her favorite pillow and packing up her comfy pants.

“That’s it?” Franco asked.

Sofia walked over to the hallway closet and pulled out a large suitcase. “That’s it.”

“I don’t want things to end this way,” he said.

She turned to face him. “Things are not going to end this way. We’re staying engaged for three more months, and then it’s officially over. That’s what I’ve come to tell you.”

“I don’t understand,” Franco said.

“My mom is expecting us to make a couple’s toast at her anniversary dinner in April, and we’re not going to let her down.”

Sofia wheeled the suitcase into the bedroom, pausing on her way to look at Franco alone at the table.

“Don’t look so confused,” she said. “You wanted a way to make it up to me. This is the way.”

Chapter 6

Because Jon had a smart mouth, growing up he got his ass kicked—a lot. Then one day, a cousin told him to bulk up or shut up. If some kids found camaraderie and guidance at a local Y, Jon found the same in a dank basement gym in New Jersey where he started lifting weights. At fourteen, when he left his mother to live with his father, an airman then stationed in Germany, he was taller than most kids and all lean muscle.

A year later, his father transferred to the UK. There Jon followed some older kids to an off-base boxing club where he practiced sparring, mastered drills and generally kept out of trouble. The first time he entered a ring at sixteen, he was a mere featherweight. By the time he returned stateside to attend college at Syracuse, he’d gained muscle and weighed in as a middleweight. He’d won a few fights and earned a scholarship from an intercollegiate boxing association that put a dent in his tuition.

Boxing had shaped his life in ways others couldn’t appreciate. His parents had mixed reactions to his newfound passion. His mother was repulsed by it. His father admired it. But they misunderstood it. Boxing hadn’t made him a fighter, as his mother feared. It had taught him restraint and self-control. Once word got out that he packed a mean punch, he didn’t get into random fights anymore. Kids stopped provoking him. And he could knock their lights out with one right hook, but why would he? It wasn’t about showing off. It was about showing skill.

So it made sense that when Jon left Sofia that night, he headed straight to the boxing club to work it all out. The converted warehouse located blocks from the Design District was light years away from the District’s freshly painted glamour. The street was dark, pothole ridden and lined with small businesses so precarious they could fold at any time. It seemed that every other shop was holding a going-out-of-business sale. With no signs or markings to call attention to it, the club would have blended nicely with the neighborhood if not for the heavily guarded parking lot filled with sport cars and SUVs. Jon let himself in with a key card, changed in the locker room and headed out to the floor.

Grunting. Slapping. Moaning. Shouts. A few regulars were going at it on the mat. A woman was attacking a heavy bag. An instructor was running a class in the back of the room. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, up! Good! Now eight more!” Jon slipped on his headphones and silenced his world. He grabbed a rope and started skipping at a slow pace then at whip speed.

Sofia had to be the most gorgeous liar he’d ever met. He didn’t know what she was hiding, but he’d find out. You couldn’t succeed in his line of work without the ability to smell deceit. That so-called fiancé of hers...he was calling bullshit. She’d hesitated to mention him. Never once said “we” like his engaged friends did. That was slim evidence, but enough to open an investigation.

A tall blond came to stand right in his field of vision—not the kind of blond that he went for. Andrew Fordham looked disheveled, his tie loose around his neck and his suit jacket crumpled in his hand. He pointed to Jon.

“Lose the headphones. Meet you in the ring in five.”

* * *

To a newcomer, Jon and Andrew would not seem evenly matched. Slim and fair, Drew didn’t look like much of a threat, but he was lightning fast and landed his punches with accuracy. But Jon’s bulk didn’t ever slow him down. They danced, circling each other, falling into a rhythm.

“Did you hear?” Drew asked.

Jon ducked, narrowly avoiding his jab. “Hear what?”

“They got Taylor Benson.”

Jon had heard. He’d watched the news over breakfast yesterday. The Florida Department of Revenue had announced the arrest of a former pop star turned Miami Beach nightclub owner. Taylor Benson had allegedly failed to turn over to the state one hundred grand in sales taxes collected at his two thriving nightclubs. Drew would be prosecuting the case. Naturally, Jon congratulated his friend before taunting him.

Drew struck, his glove skimming Jon’s chin. “Benson is going away for a long time.”

Jon went in for the attack, but Drew adroitly ducked away.

“Sounds personal,” Jon said. “Let me guess. You got kicked out of one of his clubs?”

“I’m wiping out corruption.” Drew circled him. “What have you done this week?”

“I met a woman.” Jon hadn’t realized it but he’d stopped moving. He stepped back and leaned against the ropes. “I really like her.”

“Damn it! You always win!” Drew cried. “Who is she? Anyone I know?”

“I can’t disclose that information. Not yet.”

Drew let out a low whistle. “That’s serious!”

From the floor, one of the trainers shouted at them. “Hey! If you two sweethearts don’t get moving, I’m gonna ask you to step out of the ring.”

“You heard the man,” Drew said. “Get off your ass. Let’s go.”

Jon pushed off the ropes and landed his first punch.

Chapter 7

“Check us out.” Brie pointed to the reflection in the ladies’ room mirror. “We look like a ’90s girl band.”

Sofia was sandwiched between Leila and Brie at the sinks. In their bright lipstick and little black dresses, they matched. Leila was the pretty one, Brie the wild one and Sofia the surly one who wouldn’t make it as a solo artist.

It was a Thursday night and they were gathered at the penthouse of a Brickell high-rise to preview an ambitious new Miami real-estate project. The condominium tower, slated to go up in a few months, would transform the skyline and rival any building in Dubai. It would feature a helipad, a marina and five floors dedicated to amenities. Nick and Leila had come to scope out the competition. Brie had come for the free drinks. And Sofia had come to avoid another night watching TV alone at Miguel’s place, although her stated objective was to recruit new clients.

The trio parted ways outside the ladies’ room with plans to touch base in one hour or so. Leila joined Nick. Sofia was on her way back to a secluded spot on the balcony where she’d spent most of the evening “admiring the view” when Brie grabbed her by the elbow. She shoved a glass of champagne in her hand. For the first time in Sofia’s life, the sight of sparkling bubbles made her sad. Even this event, as glamorous as it was, so glamorous she really should be taking notes (an oyster bar, a vodka tasting station...), had left her indifferent.

“Take a sip!” Brie ordered. “You’ve been lost in your feelings all night. You need to loosen up.”

Brie wasn’t so much Leila’s assistant as much as the bossy little sister Leila had never had. A pretty girl with deep brown skin, hair that changed seasonally—presently cropped short and dyed blue—and a vivacious spirit, she was always the life of the party. Her birthday was no exception. The fact that her birthday was long over made no difference. They’d celebrated two nights ago at a Heat game, but Brie had claimed the entire week as her own.

Sofia offered the standard excuse. “It’s nothing. I’ve got a headache.”

It wasn’t a lie. Since her life had turned into performance art, Sofia wasn’t her best. She was moody, sluggish, bloated and prone to migraines. To make matters worse, there was no one to blame but herself. She’d cooked up the scheme that now consumed her. There were a million ways she could have ended things with Franco, and she’d chosen the single most complicated one. It was against her nature to lie and plot like this. She was a sharp shooter, direct and honest to a fault. The surprising end of her engagement had drawn out a side of her she did not like.

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