Chapter 3 Charlotte’s POV

Charlotte POV

Straight into Alexander Moretti's face, lit up with barely-contained amusement, while my hands are wrapped around his leg like he's a subway pole during rush hour.

"Alexander!" I gasp, mortified, trying to push myself upright.

My palm slips on the wet tile. I lurch, grab his thigh to catch myself  and that's the moment Jess's borrowed bikini top decides it's had enough and gives way with a sound I will hear in my nightmares.

This is how I die. Right here. Poolside.

I slam one arm over my chest and try to stand, lose my footing again, and pitch straight into his bare torso.

His hands close around my upper arms, steady as a rock.

"I've had women throw themselves at me before," he says, voice dry as the desert around us, "but this might be the most theatrical version yet."

I'm frozen  one arm clamped over my chest, the other braced flat against his stomach, his face inches from mine. I clock, somewhere in the wreckage of my dignity, that he smells incredible. Sandalwood, something citrus underneath.

Of course my brain chooses now to notice that. There's probably a deity of public humiliation somewhere, pointing and cackling.

"Top  broke  so sorry " comes out of me in a string of syllables that barely qualify as English.

"Don't worry about it." His amusement softens into something gentler. He glances over his shoulder and gives one of his security guys a small nod.

The man produces a crisp white linen shirt out of nowhere  the speed of someone well-practiced in billionaire-adjacent disasters  and hands it over. Alexander drapes it around my shoulders and helps me into it, and suddenly I have more coverage than the bikini ever offered.

"Thanks," I manage.

"How've you been, Charlotte Carter? The woman nobody gets past."

"Except you, apparently," I say.

His grin turns dangerous. "Does Christopher know his perfect assistant is out here corrupting Las Vegas?"

I bristle. "I'm not corrupting anything. I'm allowed a personal life."

Even if that personal life is generally me, a streaming queue, and a pint of something fattening.

His brow lifts slightly, and I realize my defensiveness has wildly outpaced the actual offense.

"Relax, I'm teasing," he says, mouth curling. "Even the most loyal employees sneak out from behind their desks occasionally."

A sandy-haired man with a grin that screams bad decisions ahead steps up beside him. "Alexander. You planning to introduce us to your soggy new acquaintance, or keep her to yourself?"

That's when I notice the shirt he gave me already has a blue stain bleeding down the front, courtesy of the drink I wore on my way down.

"Oh no  your shirt  I'm so sorry"

He waves it off. "I have more. Blue was never really my color anyway." He nods toward his friend. "Logan Maxwell. Charlotte Carter. Logan's a certified HR nightmare and somehow also one of my oldest friends."

Logan clutches his chest. "Wounded. I prefer 'professionally enthusiastic.'" He gestures down the line. "Sam. And our man of the hour, Marco  getting married right here tomorrow. Vegas, baby."

My friends have drifted closer, clearly waiting for their cue. I hesitate for half a second, then decide  screw it.

I'm allowed to have fun. I just said so myself.

"My friends," I say. "Hannah, Jess, Amara. We're out here celebrating Amara's promotion."

"Congratulations," Alexander tells her, and she practically radiates under the attention.

"Drinks. On me." Logan claps his hands together. "For the promotion, and for the single greatest collision I've witnessed poolside, ever  and trust me, that bar is high."

"That's really not nec" I start.

"We accept," Jess interrupts smoothly. "But first, Charlotte needs a wardrobe emergency fixed."

Alexander's eyes drop briefly to the shirt swallowing my frame, and something shifts behind them something that sends an entirely different kind of flutter through my stomach.

"Our cabana has somewhere private to change," he offers. "Help yourself."

Before I can construct a polite refusal, we're being shepherded toward a cabana roughly the square footage of my apartment. Inside, the music dims to a low thrum, and a fully stocked bar gleams in the corner.

"Bathroom's back there," Alexander points. "Take whatever time you need."

Hannah trails me in, pulling a safety pin from her bag with the flourish of a magician producing a rabbit.

"Never travel without backup supplies," she says, fastening the strap while I peel off the borrowed shirt. "So. Alexander Moretti. I think he's into you."

"He's my boss's friend," I remind her, though even I can hear how thin that sounds now.

"Professional boundaries died the second your top did," she laughs. "Also  Vegas. Boundaries are basically optional out here."

Bikini reattached, however precariously, I scrub the last of the blue cocktail off my skin with a stack of damp towels and head back out.

By the time we resurface, a tray of shots has appeared on the table and Logan is mid-story to an audience of his own making.

"There she is," he announces. "Our cocktail-flinging assassin returns. Right on time for round one."

Alexander crosses to me. I hold out his shirt. "Thank you for the rescue coverage."

He waves it away. "Keep it. I told you, blue's not my color."

"I'll pay for"

"Finish that sentence and I'll be offended," he says. "I own more shirts than I know what to do with, Charlotte."

The way my name sounds in his mouth  slow, deliberate  sends a wave of heat through my middle that has nothing to do with the Vegas sun.

Logan materializes between us, shoving shot glasses into our hands. "Less apologizing. More drinking. We're toasting Marco's last stretch of bachelorhood and Amara's corner office."

This is a terrible idea. Shots loosen tongues. Loosened tongues lead to embarrassing yourself in front of billionaires who happen to know your boss.

But Alexander's watching me with those dark, unbothered eyes, and something reckless flickers awake inside me. Two years of being flawless, controlled Charlotte. Maybe  just for one weekend  I get to be someone else.

I raise the glass. "To questionable decisions."

"To questionable decisions," he echoes, holding my gaze as we drink.

The liquor scorches its way down and I fight back a cough. He doesn't so much as blink.

Naturally. He probably has whiskey aged by monks shipped in for breakfast.

"Round two!" Logan's already flagging down the server.

As fresh shots arrive, I catch Hannah watching me with a knowing grin from across the cabana. I shake my head at her. She grins wider.

Alexander leans in, voice dropping low enough that it's just for me. "You know, most people who work for Christopher won't even meet my eyes, let alone use my leg as an emergency handrail."

"You're never letting this go, are you," I say.

"Not a chance," he says, that half-smile making a reappearance. "But don't worry. What happens in Vegas..."

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