By the time I hobble and duck under the awning of a tourist trap gift shop, the rain is sheeting sideways, and I’m soaked. My hair stuck to my cheeks. Makeup melting. My once-expensive blouse now see-through and clinging in all the worst places.
I blink back tears, but they come anyway.
Cue the mental breakdown.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and do what any rational adult would do in this situation. I call Brè.
She answers on the second ring.
“Brè, I lost my wallet,” I sob into the phone “My passport was in it. I'm standing in the rain with a broken shoe, my phone's about to die, and I’m sure this entire state hates me.”
“Okay, okay, slow down,” Brè says, instantly shifting into crisis mode. “Where are you?”
“Outside a giftshop near Taylor PR.
“Okay, first things first. Go back inside the firm. There's bound to be security who can help. I'll call the firm and let them know you need assistance. I’ll call you back.”
True to her word, Brè calls back five minutes later, by which time I've made it back into the building's lobby. The security guard, a kind older man named Frank, has provided me with a blanket and offered to call someone to pick me up.
“Okay,” she says, brisk and businesslike in the way that always makes me nervous. “Crisis management in full swing. I’ve sorted you a room at the Sunset Motel in Portree.” she announces like she just closed a corporate merger.
I blink, stunned. “Youwhat?”
“You’re welcome,” she says sweetly, then powers on. “The owner’s a buddy of a guy who owes a favor to Grant Taylor. You know, one of the owners of the place you're freeloading office space from.”
My stomach flutters before I can stop it.Grant Taylor.Of course.
She doesn’t know I’ve already met him, twice. Doesn’t know I’ve seen the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, or the color of them—amber like whisky, warm like trouble. Doesn’t know I’ve spent the last few hours pretending my body didn’t react to his voice like it was a goddamn stimulus test.
“I’ve met him.” Trying my best to sound casual.“I didn’t know you and Grant were friends,” I say carefully, toeing the edge of what Ireallywant to ask.
“We’re not,” she says. “Well, notfriends-friendsexactly. More like professional contacts with mutual respect and conflicting sarcasm. He runs Taylor PR, I run tight deadlines and emotional damage. We crossed paths when I worked on a book launch they handled. He’s got a good eye for campaigns… and an annoyingly smug smile I can’t print on a dust jacket.”
That tracks.
“So what—you just called in a favor?”
“Sort of,” she says. “Let’s just say I reminded him of that time I saved his ass from an author who wanted to sue for creative defamation. In exchange, he offered to call the motel guy and set you up—no ID needed, no questions asked. We’ll sort the logistics of everything else out tomorrow.”
I pause. That flutter in my chest again. Not the good kind. Not quite the bad kind either.
“Why would he do that?” I ask quietly.
“Because not everyone is a raging asshole, Mia,” Brè says dryly. “And because maybe the universe is trying to tell you something. Something about letting go, about not being in charge all the time.”
She says it lightly, but it lands hard.
Because this? This isn’t me. I’m not the woman who loses her passport, her luggage, her godforsaken composure. I’m the woman with color-coded packing cubes and backup plans for her backup plans.
But lately, it’s like I’ve fallen clean off the organized axis of the planet.
And somehow, the person catching me on the way down… is a cowboy with a crooked grin and a talent for showing up when I least expect him.
Chapter 5
Mia
Sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, I’m surrounded by chaos. My handbag has exploded across the duvet in a glorious display of lipstick tubes, rogue receipts, half-used tissues, gum and wrappers.
