Chapter 2 Charlotte’s POV

Charlotte POV

The Aria sits on the Strip like a glass-and-steel flex, refrigerated to the point of frostbite inside, with carpet patterns loud enough to camouflage whatever sins happened on them the night before.

"Charlotte. Phone. Away." Hannah plucks my attention back to the group as we weave through the lobby crowd. "We agreed  zero work this weekend."

I drop the phone into my bag like it physically pains me to let go. "I was checking if it might rain."

"Sure you were," she says, hooking her arm through mine anyway.

The suite is absurd in the best way  the kind of beautiful that four people splitting a bill can suddenly afford. Jess face-plants onto one of the beds with a happy shriek while Hannah makes a beeline for the minibar like it owes her money.

I pull out my plain black one-piece and immediately feel like I've shown up to a rave with a thermos of chamomile tea.

"Absolutely not." Jess plucks it out of my hands before I can object. "This is not happening. Not at the hottest pool on the Strip."

She digs through her bag and surfaces with a scrap of red fabric that, on closer inspection, might generously cover a third of my body. "Spare bikini. Bold color, indecent cut. Perfect."

"I'm not really a bold-and-indecent person," I say.

"Exactly the problem we're solving today," she fires back. "When's the last time someone other than yourself got you off?"

Heat rushes straight to my face. "That has nothing to do with our itinerary."

Which is also a slightly tragic question to answer honestly, given how long it's been. My vibrator and I are basically common-law partners at this point.

Amara snorts. "Translation: she doesn't remember."

I grab the bikini before they can pile on further. "Fine. But if anything escapes containment, I'm blaming all of you, individually and as a group."

•••••

Half an hour later we're stretched out on loungers at the Liquid Pool Lounge, where the bass is loud enough to override basic thought, which I assume is the entire business model. Gorgeous people drape themselves around the water like they're auditioning for something, cocktails glowing in colors nature never intended.

I am, predictably, miserable.

I tug at the bikini top for the hundredth time, certain a malfunction is imminent. Jess swears it's secure. I do not believe Jess.

"Quit fussing," Hannah says, pressing a violently blue drink into my hand. "You look amazing. Sit in it."

I take a cautious sip. Tastes like jet fuel with a citrus chaser, theoretically  I've never actually tasted jet fuel, for the record.

Exactly what I need to stop thinking about the unread emails stacking up in my inbox. Christopher's probably drowning without me. Maybe I'll just peek

"Hello? Charlotte?" Amara snaps her fingers near my ear. "We are toasting ME. My promotion. Stay present!"

I lift my glass. "To Amara. Best Senior Marketing Director currently employed at her company."

"The only one I have," she points out, grinning.

"Semantics," I say, taking another drink. The alcohol spreads warm through my chest and my shoulders finally start to unclench.

That's the exact moment I spot him.

Oh no.

On the far side of the pool, ringed by friends and a small constellation of bikini-clad admirers, stands Alexander Moretti. Yes  that Alexander Moretti. Billionaire, architect, design-world golden boy, and Christopher's closest friend.

The same man who breezes through our lobby every couple of weeks like the building belongs to him, which, knowing his net worth, it might. From behind the front desk I've had a season-pass view of the Alexander Moretti Experience. He's never given me more than a polite nod  to him I'm furniture with a headset, the woman who answers the phone in Christopher's name. But even furniture has eyes, and even furniture notices when a Greek statue strolls past wearing board shorts and nothing else.

His chest looks exactly like what unlimited money and a personal trainer produce  toned, not theatrical, with a faint dusting of dark hair. Like his abs got a memo that read effortless, not showy and simply complied, because nothing dares disobey Alexander Moretti. His stubble is heavier than office-visit stubble, and his hair's damp, like he's already been in the water once today.

Stop ogling your boss's best friend like he's the last slice of cake. Professional distance. Remember that concept?

"Is that  oh my god, that's Alexander Moretti." Hannah has clocked him too. Of course she has. The woman has a sixth sense for net worth.

"Where?" Jess and Amara turn in perfect, embarrassing unison.

"Don't stare," I hiss, several seconds too late. We are now, officially, a table of gawkers.

"He's the guy from your office?" Jess breathes. "Photos genuinely undersell him."

I take another gulp. "Can we not make this a whole thing? I do have to maintain some professional"

"He's looking over here," Amara cuts in, and I nearly inhale my drink.

Sure enough, his gaze is sweeping in our direction. I duck and become extremely interested in the ice cubes floating in my glass.

Don't recognize me. Don't recognize me.

I sneak another look. He's flanked by three other men, all cracking up at something the shortest one said, plus two guys in plain clothes radiating the specific stillness of professional bodyguards.

"One of his friends is getting married," I say, before I can stop myself. "Marco. Big Italian family, very old-school."

Three heads swivel toward me.

"What?" I shrug. "I had to mail his regrets gift when Christopher skipped the wedding. Spent an entire afternoon comparing Tuscan wine before he overruled me with some absurdly rare scotch."

"Of course you'd know your boss's friend's friend's wedding details," Jess laughs. "You probably know their blood types."

"Just Christopher's," I mutter. "Emergency-transfusion purposes only."

That gets a real laugh, and for a minute we drift back to our drinks, sun-warmed and loose-limbed. I let myself actually relax.

Which is, naturally, when the universe decides to ruin everything.

Jess, hauling fresh drinks back from the bar, catches her foot on a stray flip-flop and goes down with a yelp, slamming into a passing waiter, who staggers sideways straight into our row of loungers.

Mine tips. I go with it, hitting the pool deck with all the elegance of a dropped grocery bag. My drink goes flying. I scramble for purchase on the slick tile, grab for what I assume is a chair leg, and instead close both hands around someone's very firm, very warm calf.

I look up the length of that calf.