Page 1 of Her Sun-Drenched Billionaire

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ELIZA

The rooftop was emptying out.

Saylor had been the last to leave, squeezing my arm on her way to the stairs with a “don’t stay up here all night” that I’d already decided to ignore. Lark drifted down ten minutes before that, humming something I didn’t recognize. Tatum left first, phone already at her ear before the stairwell door closed behind her. Margeaux hadn’t come tonight—she’d texted the group chat at six with,Long day. Next week.

I liked Friday happy hours on the Pixel Lofts rooftop. I liked them better when they were over and I could have the quiet to myself.

I pulled up the contact on my phone. Quinn, August. Office line. I’d saved it three weeks ago after the first email went unanswered, and the second and third hadn’t done any better. His assistant had replied once—a polite nothing.

Mr. Quinn’s schedule is fully committed through the summer. We appreciate your interest in BrindleIQ’s partnership opportunities and will keep First Light Scholars on file.

On file.

I pressedcalland listened to it ring four times before the voicemail picked up. Professional, clipped, generic—the kind of recording a CEO never bothered to change from the default.

“Hi, this is Eliza Greer calling from First Light Scholars. Again.” I paced along the railing, the Pleasure Valley skyline going amber in the late light. “I’m reaching out about our annual summer gala on July twelfth at the Evergreen Room. Two hundred guests, donors, educators, families. We’re looking for a keynote speaker who actually understands what education access means on the ground, not just on a slide deck, and everything I’ve read about BrindleIQ’s founding tells me that’s you. This would be twenty minutes of your evening, and it would matter to every kid in that room. My number is on every message I’ve left this week. I hope you’ll call me back.”

I hung up. The screen went dark in my hand.

“Four voicemails in one week,” I said to nobody. “And he can’t pick up the phone.”

“You left out the part about the open bar.”

I turned around.

He was standing near the fireplace alcove, maybe fifteen feet away, a drink in one hand and his long-sleeve tee pushed to his elbows so the fabric strained across his chest and shoulders. Dark beard, trimmed but full. Tattoos past both wrists, layered and detailed, disappearing under the shirt. He was built like someone who moved heavy things for a living, not someone who ran a tech company.

“Beckett Welch told me there was a happy hour on his rooftop,” he said. “I showed up late.”

“Everyone’s gone,” I said.

“Not everyone.”

My brain did two things at once. The first was recognizing that a man had been standing on the rooftop for at least part of my voicemail and I hadn’t noticed. The second was trying toreconcile what I was looking at with the corporate headshot I’d been staring at for three weeks. The headshot was a suit and a clean shave and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. This was not that.

“August Quinn,” I said.

“Eliza Greer.” He took a sip of his drink—bourbon, judging by the color. “Again.”

My face went hot. I could feel the flush in my ears, my cheeks, spreading down to my collarbones the way it always did when I couldn’t control it.

“How long have you been standing there?” I asked.

“Long enough to hear the pitch.” He didn’t smile, and he didn’t move from the alcove. “It’s better in person than on a voicemail.”

“Most things are.” I pushed my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. “That’s why I’ve been trying to get you on the phone.”

He watched me. Not scanning, not sizing up—just watching, still and patient, like he was waiting for something I hadn’t said yet. It should have made me nervous. It didn’t.

“Tell me about First Light,” he said.

“I just did. On your voicemail.”

“Tell me the version that isn’t a pitch.”

I leaned against the railing. The sun was dropping behind the buildings to the west, and the whole rooftop had gone gold—warm, heavy, the kind of late-June evening that pressed against your skin and didn’t plan on letting up.