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I adjust my covers, trying to ignore Matt’s snoring. He’s sleeping on a cot that’s two feet too short. One lanky leg and arm hang over the edge. A line of drool bungees from the corner of his mouth. I cringe.

In her own queen-size bed, Casey is wide awake. A stack of pillows supports her laptop. Her glasses are lit blue from the screen where’s she’s editing video clips. A low rumble comes from her headphones. She’s a maniac workaholic.

I’d tell her to go to sleep, but she would tell me to go to hell. She’s on a quest to make sure her number one client has a great year. There’s a reason I pay her more than myself. She keeps our ship afloat and on course, and she keeps me sane and planted in reality.

I roll in another direction, trying to fall back to sleep, but my brain refuses to turn off. Because I’ve been dreaming of Sophia, something in my pants is turned on. The timing of this infatuation is terrible.

Hell, from the moment I laid eyes on her in Chicago as I waited for my connecting flight from New York, I was mesmerized. She was impossible to miss, surrounded by her pink luggage. The scene was a defiant brushstroke of color against the gritty industrial darkness of O’Hare Airport.

Sophia wore headphones and lip-synced song after song. I learned to read her bee-stung lips. After she sang Beyoncé and Taylor, she moved on to Alanis Morissette and then Olivia Rodrigo. With the song choices, I was sensing a breakup, even before I came across her now infamous wedding beatdown on social media.

I wonder if she knows how famous she is right now. If it continues, her fan club might start asking her for boob autographs. Hell, I’m ready for her to sign my body, even if she’d whip out a bread knife and start carving. But I’d prefer her nails . . . down my back . . .

Focus, dude!

If I would have known she’d have me wound this tight, I would have promptly booked a seat on a flight to another country. I’m not sure I’d be safe on the moon. Somehow, she’d find me, or I’d find her. I blame my dick. It’s the one with the Sophia radar.

A word I normally refuse to think settles on my lips. Hopene. It’s a Tina word, one I never use, and it’s the only one fitting for my meeting Sophia. In Hawaiian, it means destiny.

Fuck destiny.

Annoyed, I toss off the covers, stand up, and stretch. As I pass Casey on the way to the bathroom, I close her laptop screen and point at her.

Go to sleep, I mouth.

She defiantly opens her laptop and types furiously on her keyboard. She’ll be like that for hours. I’m honestly not sure she ever sleeps. Must be all the coffee. She probably bleeds caffeine.

I dress and head to the beach for a run. Exercising before sunrise is better, anyway. Most people who might recognize me are still passed out.

I jog past the bungalow and glance at the second floor. By tonight, Sophia and I will be sleeping under the same roof. The issue? It excites me more than finally having access to the house.

For that ridiculous thought, I run harder, faster, until I’m sprinting and out of breath. I’m a few miles away before I turn back and face my greatest fear—falling for someone who will break my heart, pick up the pieces, and then shoot them out of a confetti cannon at her next pink-themed pool party.

I’ll bet Sophia dots the i in her name with a motherfucking heart.

At breakfast, Casey studies me from across the table and asks, “You okay? I thought you’d be ecstatic about the house.”

I grunt and shovel an egg-white omelet into my mouth.

A cheery Matt tugs out a chair, its feet scratching the tile. He plops down with three plates piled with every item on the buffet.

Is that sushi with ice cream sprinkles and syrup?

“Great job, team. We’re back on track.”

Matt lifts a hand for a high five, but Casey and I leave him hanging. We’re still studying his breakfast. It’s disgusting.

“I see how you’re gonna be.” Matt slicks back his hair, as if that’s where his hand was headed all along.

Several giggling women pass and wave hello.

“Ladies!” Matt calls out. He leans back in his seat, his arms spread wide. “Don’t forget the Bingo rave later. See you there!” He points to one girl and winks.

When they’re done eye-fucking each other, he returns his attention to us. His hands rub his pecs while his grin stretches from ear to ear.

I give him a condemning look.

“Chill. It’s a work party,” he says. “You know, those events you despise? Someone’s got to bring the fun, ’cause it ain’t you.”