Well, someone has to do the hard part. “Get on your plane,” I tell him.

  He growls.

  I button my jeans and open the door. We both duck into the men’s room to wash our hands, and when we’re presentable, he walks me to my gate, then stops, locking eyes with my brother.

  “You must be Charlie.”

  My brother beams. “Yes. Charlie Ford. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Rafe shakes my brother’s hand. “It’s lovely to meet you too. Gunnar speaks highly of you.” Rafe’s eyes turn more serious. “Will you look out for him for me?”

  Charlie blinks, surprised. “Of course.”

  Then Rafe turns to me. He makes a move to step closer but must think better of it. He won’t want to reveal in public who we are to each other.

  Instead, he says, “I’ll see you soon.”

  Then, he turns on his heel, heads to his gate, and takes off for the other side of the ocean.

  On the plane, Charlie asks me what’s going on.

  “I think I’m kind of in love with Rafe Rodman,” I say, which feels terrifying and wonderful.

  Charlie offers me a fist for knocking, but as I sink back in the chair, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about Rafe.

  46

  A LITTLE MAGIC

  Rafe

  Priyam is a careful, detailed man, and the paperwork for Bespoke feels endless.

  I might as well put a cot in my attorney’s Covent Garden office and camp out for days. But details are critical, so I once again read the documents Anne slides in front of me.

  “Just a few more pages,” she says and moves to stand by the window overlooking the river below.

  It’s a lovely view, but I’d rather it be the Golden Gate Bridge. Lately, I’ve been missing San Francisco. Lately, as in, since I left New York and Gunnar a little more than a week ago.

  It feels like forever.

  The deal still isn’t closed and won’t be for another few weeks.

  But I read, sign, then thank my ace attorney.

  “We can send the rest of the papers digitally, you know,” Anne offers.

  It’s a thoughtful reminder that I don’t have to be here in person.

  “I’ll think on it,” I say.

  As I leave, I do just that.

  I’ve met with Priyam, toured his facilities in London, and visited the factories nearby, since he’s locally based. I’ve met with the banks. All in all, I’ve spent a month in this city working all day and most of the night.

  Do I need to be here? Or am I hanging on in my hometown for other reasons?

  I exit the building and head past the Savoy, making my way to meet Christine for a beer. The air is chilly, and I tighten the scarf around my neck. It’s mid-November now. Baseball season is over. London is gray, and the river is quieter than usual. Fewer boats, fewer people. As I walk along the River Thames, I check my email. I must stay focused on work and on the deal. If I spend too much time staring at boats, I’ll keep asking myself questions about where I should be and if I’m supposed to return to San Francisco.

  The first email I click on is from Matthew. The subject line says, “You’ll love these.”

  He’s sent me shots from the You Do You shoot in Central America. I brace myself for an onslaught of feelings as I open the images.

  Bloody hell.

  I am not prepared. I stop in front of a Thai restaurant to catch my breath. There’s a shot of Gunnar on the beach, clear blue waters behind him, looking smoldering and entirely too far away from me.

  What am I doing?

  I scroll to the next one, a shot of him in a luxurious bathroom, shaving while wearing just a pair of the red devil briefs. My throat goes dry as my gaze roams over the picture.

  But I’m both aroused and sad. My heart aches as memories taunt me.

  Showering in my bathroom that night. Brushing our teeth together before bed. Getting breakfast together the next morning.

  Dammit. I didn’t get enough of him at all during our brief time together.

  I wanted thirty days. I got one terrific night.

  I chose only one night.

  Should I have chosen thirty instead? The question gnaws at me.

  I click on another shot. Gunnar lounges at a table on a balcony, drinking a coffee, wearing reading glasses, perusing a book. He wears only basic white briefs that are snug and tight.

  That image is just exquisite.

  The ache in my heart intensifies.

  I want the mornings too. I want the thirty days and thirty nights that I stupidly denied myself.

  Putting my mobile away, I cross the street, needing distance from the pang the photos bring, but then I do a double take when I spot a poster of Lucas at a bus stop. It’s an advert for his fragrance.

  I scan it clinically. A few months ago, the image might have smacked me square in the solar plexus, radiating through me painfully.

  But this time I feel nothing—not even the ghost of the past hurt. Now I just see him as somebody from long ago.

  He’s not the one who can hurt me anymore.

  I’m the one who’s hurting me.

  I am the architect of my misery.

  I pick up the pace, suddenly more impatient to see Christine. I have too many questions to handle myself. Is Anne right? Should I go back to San Francisco? If I came to London to get away, has my self-imposed exile run its course?

  Well, I do live in San Francisco, and I was always going to return. But I’ve avoided it. I suppose I’ve stayed here to avoid Gunnar—to avoid my own response to him.

  My own obsession.

  When I reach the pub, I quickly find Christine at the bar. I kiss her cheek, then I blurt out, “I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of fear holding me back. I think I need to make a change. A big change.”

  Her lips crook up into a grin. “Rafe, what are you saying?”

  I gird myself to dig down deep. “When I return to San Francisco, I need to figure out something, don’t I?”

  She rolls her eyes and laughs. “Figure out something? Your big decision is to decide something?”

  I sit up straighter, slightly chastened. “Yes. With Gunnar,” I say, in case it’s not clear.

  “I knew you were talking about Gunnar.”

  “Well? Do you think I should figure something out?” I ask again.

  She levels at me the most serious look she’s ever given. “Rafe, why don’t you aim a little higher than figuring something out?”

  She’s right. Figuring something out isn’t enough.

  As she hails the bartender to order me a drink, I click over to Gunnar’s social media. I don’t want one night with him. I don’t want thirty nights with him.

  I want all the days and nights. I want more than an obsession.

  When I reach the feed’s most recent photo, I smile, and it feels like it comes from deep within me. Gunnar stands in front of the ocean, wearing board shorts and a smile. One arm is draped around his sister, the other around his mother, and her arm links around Charlie.

  The picture of Gunnar enjoying his family makes me the happiest I’ve been in a long, long time.

  I think I’ve just figured out more than something. I’ve figured out everything.

  Now I have to work out how to get it.

  When Gunnar wanted to find me after the dance club, he threw out a lure on social media, posting an image of himself in Rafe Rodman briefs and an invitation to come and get him. He posted a thirst trap to get my attention. He has it now, along with all of my heart.

  I click on his post and hit reply, writing: This makes me want to get into the bathing suit business.

  Seconds later, there’s a response.

  Well, what’s stopping you?

  That’s an excellent question. “What the fuck is stopping me?” I ask myself aloud.

  Christine smiles as she asks, “Is that what you’ve decided to figure out?”

  I don’t have to. The only thing in the way of my heart is—me. I’m what’s stopping me.

  “I am a daft idiot. I thought I was obsessed with him. But the only thing I’m obsessed with is work.”

  Christine lifts her glass in a toast. “By George, I think he’s got it!”

  I’ve had a good rationale for pouring myself into my business, but work doesn’t look at me the way Gunnar does. Work doesn’t make my heart thunder. Work doesn’t make me happy. It’s fulfilling, but I have wildly intelligent people like Matthew and Theresa on my team. People who can keep things humming. Who will help me with anything if I only ask.

  I can say the same about my best friend, and I turn to her and ask for the help I need. “Would you come back to my hotel to help me with something?”

  “Of course I will. That’s why I’m here.”

  I pay the bill, and we take off. At the hotel, we head straight for Theresa’s suite, and I rap on the door.

  When she sees us, she sweeps open the door with an invitation. “Come in.”

  “Can you handle the rest of our business here?” I ask. “Closing the Bespoke deal? Managing the paperwork, the attorneys, the bankers? You can get in touch with me for my signature digitally.”

  “It’s like we’re living in the twenty-first century,” Christine remarks, and Theresa laughs, ganging up on me.

  “Laugh if you want,” I say. I know I’m tragically unhip, that e-signatures aren’t sorcery.

  But for me, deviating from business requires a little magic.

  47

  A MIRAGE, OR NOT

  Gunnar

  A sapphire fish swims past me in the cool, clear waters, shimmering under the sea. I point it out to Mom, and even with a snorkel in her mouth, she beams. Jamie flippers her way closer, checking out a school of jewel-like fish, and I swim past a cove, then some coral, but soon I hit my snorkeling limit.

  The off-season is wonderful and tiring. I signal to the fam that I’m taking off. They signal that they’re going to stay a little longer. Another day in paradise.

  I return to shore, toe off my flippers, remove my snorkel, and walk through the soft sugary sand on Playa Conchal, a serene stretch of beach on the coast of Costa Rica. I flop into the lounge chair next to Charlie’s, spent, but it’s the good kind of tired. A blissful vacation tired, born from sun and sea and surf. From good food and family and laughter. The last few days of this trip have been fantastic, and I’ve treasured every minute with them. There’s only one thing missing.

  But I don’t want to linger on what isn’t here. Costa Rica is heaven, and it is a treat to share it with the people I love.

  “I could sleep all afternoon,” I say to Charlie.

  “Definitely do it,” he says, but he’s jittery, shaking a knee, stealing peeks from his book back to the hotel, a hundred feet away.

  “You okay? You waiting for something?”

  “Yeah. I just ordered a drink,” he says.

  “Cool.” He’s been drinking virgin piña coladas like he’ll never see another. “I’m going to soak in some sun.”

  “You do that,” he says.

  I fold my hands across my stomach, close my eyes, and let the tropical sun warm me from head to toe until my body is heavy with drowsy almost-contentment.

  The sound of footsteps on the sand barely reach me through my doze. Hmm. Must be the guy bringing Charlie a drink.

  Only the footfalls come closer to my lounge.

  I open my eyes, squinting in the sun, and . . .

  Holy mirage.

  I’m still asleep.

  This is a dream.

  A gorgeous man with blazing brown eyes stands almost in reach, dressed in a white linen shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals. Rafe in beachwear is an unexpected fantasy.

  I sit up and rub my eyes, and he’s still there even though Charlie’s disappeared. Rafe takes a step toward me, then another. He’s smiling and carrying a canvas bag, and I’m too overwhelmed to ask what’s in it.

  He reaches me, and I jump to my feet so we’re eye to eye. “What are you doing here?” I ask, stunned that he’s not a figment of my imagination.

  “I have something for you,” he says, as if that explains everything.

  I can barely form words while I process the magnitude of Rafe Rodman here in Costa Rica instead of London. “Something for me?”

  “You asked me on social media what was stopping me from making you a bathing suit, and I figured out what it was.”

  “And what’s that?”

  He points to his chest. “Me. Seems I’m the only one stopping myself from a lot of things.” He takes the canvas bag from under his arm. “So with that out of the way, I ran you up a suit in London so I could bring it here.”

  I run my hand over my sea-stiff hair and try to wrap my head around what the fuck is happening in my life. “You came from London to bring me swim trunks?”

  His grin is wicked and beautiful. “Yes.”

  Reaching into the bag, he takes out a pair of light blue board shorts and hands them to me. “The color of your eyes,” he says, low and sensual, but loving too.

  I take them, and this feels so surreal, from the fabric to the shorts to the man. “You came here to give me a bathing suit,” I say again. Because I want this to be so much more than a bathing suit. I see potential, and I hope I’m not imagining things.

  Rafe erases the remaining distance between us, reaches for my face, and drags his thumb along my jaw. “Mostly, I came here to tell you that I love you.”

  “You do?” My heart stops, then takes off galloping wildly.

  He nods, and he looks so different than before. Radiant in a whole new way. Vulnerable and happy. “I love you madly. I fell in love with you during all the time we spent together. The evenings and the phone calls and the conversations. And I was such a fool to try to stay away and such an idiot to let you go. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

  I set the suit on the chair. I’m shaking with happiness, but I don’t want to get hurt again. “Rafe, I can’t handle the back and forth,” I say, laying my heart on the line. He’s got to be all in. “I can’t do a thirty-day arrangement. I love you too, and I want all of you. All the days.”

  He grins, wider than the sea behind us. “I want all of you, Gunnar. No limits. No timelines. No stopping.”

  This is a dream come true. Except, what if it’s not? “But what about work?”

  “But what about you and me? That’s what I’ve been asking myself since I left you. I had to tear myself away from you like I was ripping off a piece of myself. I want an us more than I want the next deal.” He’s full of passion and certainty, and I want to believe he’s thought this through.

  I swallow roughly. “But your employees. You said they’re like family.”

  “They are. And fortunately, I don’t have to do all the work. I have amazing people I work with. Incredible people I’ve hired. They’re going to finish the deal in London. I don’t ever want to let you get away again. You mean the world to me.” Then, he smiles hopefully. “I’m yours if you’ll have me.”

  I’m in shock. But I’m in heaven too. My skin is buzzing. My heart is jumping for joy. “You’re mine? For real?”

  “No, Gunnar,” he says. “We are ours.”

  Sounds pretty fucking good to me.

  I kiss the hell out of this man who flew to Costa Rica to bring me a bathing suit . . . and himself.

  Nothing matters more in the whole damn world than this chance at love and happiness. Rafe came into my life one random night at a dance club, and he was everything I never knew I needed.

  I never want to let him go.

  When we break the kiss, I’m lust drunk, and lovestruck, and my brother is standing nearby, punching the sky.

  I laugh, then I scowl at Charlie. “Did you have something to do with this?”

  “I sure did,” Charlie crows.

  Rafe cuts in. “I contacted your brother and he told me where to find you. There are a lot of beaches in Costa Rica and I would have trekked across all of them, but I wanted to find you as fast as I could.”

  “I had a feeling you’d be good with me telling him your longitude and latitude,” Charlie says with a smile.

  I smile at the two of them, so damn grateful. “I am good with it. I am so good with it.” I turn back to Rafe. “And I am so good with you.”

  He presses his forehead to mine and stays like that, breathing in and out, leaning against me for long seconds that I never want to end.

  Then he whispers, “I don’t want to intrude on a family vacation.”

  “Oh babes, intrude all you want. You’re not slipping away from me now.”

  “Can I stay with you at least one night?”

  “You can stay with me as long as you want.” I step back to look into his eyes as an idea takes hold. A dirty, delicious one. “They’re surfing tomorrow, and my contract forbids it so I have an entire day all by myself.”

  His eyes flicker with heat. Rafe runs the tip of his tongue along his teeth. “I know what we can do with a day.”

  EPILOGUE

  DIRTY DREAMS COME TRUE

  Rafe

  I clear the lower deck of the yacht. I tell the crew we’re going to need some privacy for the next hour. They’re discreet, and they vanish.

  That’s the kind of service worth paying a premium for.

  As the sun shines overhead, I go down the steps of the opulent one-hundred-twenty-foot yacht bobbing gently in clear blue waters.

  Gunnar and I make our way to a table by the railing and the bottle of champagne there. I open it, pour two flutes, then hand one to the man who waited for me. Who showed me his heart and his truth. “To the man I love taking me back,” I say.

  Gunnar smiles in pure Gunnar style—flirty and cocky. I want to keep making him smile like that forever. “To my man coming for me,” he says, then clinks his glass to mine and takes a drink.

  I swallow some bubbly, then set the glass on the table. He does the same. I glance at the railing, the ocean beyond. “What do you think of the view?”