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But there’s nothing wrong with getting a little fresh air.
Mind made up, I clutch the keys in my fist and walk out the door. The sun is still high in the sky—the time difference between the US and South America means we earned ourselves a few hours of daylight. I could probably drive fast enough to catch the sunset dipping beneath the peaks.
“Where did they park the car?” I mumble, stepping past rows of vehicles.
A loudcrashstops me in the middle of my search.
My body tenses on instinct.
Another crash. This time it’s accompanied by the sound of shattered glass.
I turn around and see a woman hunched over a car. She’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt under a mechanic jumpsuit. Heavy duty gloves wrap around a baseball bat and I see goggle straps around her head. She’s got her back to me, but something about her height and build is familiar.
Bam!Her bat whacks off a side-mirror.
I should mind my own business. This disturbance has nothing to do with me.
I’m about to walk off when the woman turns around.
Every bone in my body goes still all at once.
My heart falls with a bang to the pavement.
Honey-brown eyes sparkle at me behind a pair of safety goggles. That perfect, sultry smile tugs at full, maroon-toned lips. Skin the color of dark chestnut glows from the inside out as the Uruguayan sun spotlights her better than any fashion show in the world ever could.
“Yaya?” I whisper.
She yanks off the gloves—the first hand, then the next—revealing slender, brown hands fitted with rings. And a pink watch.
The goggles go flying next and they land in the mound of shattered glass at her feet.
I don’t remember giving my legs permission to walk but, when I come back to myself, I’m in front of her and I realize my body moved without me.
My thoughts are racing.
And yet, when I lift my hands to sign, I ask the stupidest question…
“What are you wearing?”
What are you wearing? Really, Dare?
Her smile turns mischievous. She’s not bothered at all. “I thought, this time, when I wreck your car, I should wear proper gear.”
So pretty.
So precious.
So… here.
Here.
Why is she here? Smiling at me like that?
Am I dreaming? Did I faint after Mosely told me off and practically pushed me out of the elevator? Or did I imagine that conversation too? My usually mild-mannered assistant suddenly erupting on me? That probably didn’t happen.
So that means, at this moment, I’m passed out on the conference table, having finally overdosed on coffee and heartbreak. And pretty soon, Uruguayan hotel cleaners will stumble in and find my unmoving body and assume I’m dead.
Am I dead?
