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Chapter 1

You can leave your clothes on the chair was the last thing Letty Gonzalez expected to hear on
her first day of a new job. When she’d been rather forcefully thrust into starting her own
business, she’d had no idea that nudity would be involved. If so, she’d started the wrong kind of
business. That was more her sister, Elena-the-swimsuit-model’s area of expertise.
Perhaps she was in the wrong place? She’d double-checked the address her new—and
first—client had sent her via e-mail. But maybe she should have had a phone conversation with
the guy first. If so, she would have known that his voice was so deep and angry sounding that it
would send a jolt of electricity straight from her ears into her girl parts. More importantly, she’d
have realized that this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill personal assistant or organizational job—that
sexual favors would have been expected.
“I’m not—um—that’s not what—I think there’s been some confusion.” Her mouth was so dry.
Why was this giant warehouse space in the design district the one place in Miami with no
humidity? And, dear God, why was it so hot? She was glad she hadn’t worn a white blouse,
because it would be pitted out right now.
Everything was hot and dry, except for in her underwear, because her client was insanely
good-looking.
“What’s confusing?” The man sitting on a stool behind a table hadn’t even looked up at her;
he’d just barked at her to enter and told her to get naked. Letty had never had to resort to sex
work to make ends meet—at least not yet—but she wondered if all hooking was this impersonal.
“Take off your clothes and get your ass on the platform.”
“I mean—”
He made an impatient noise through his teeth. Sort of like a growl mixed with a sigh. He
rubbed his temples with the thumb and forefinger on one of his large hands. That’s when she
noticed the bottle of bourbon sitting next to him. And the two fingers of amber liquid in a glass
right next to that.
And the question took her completely off guard. No one was ever aching for her to take off her
clothes, even if that was what she wanted. If they’d met under different circumstances—like at a
bar—she would have fantasized about taking off her clothes for this guy. But, if they were at a
bar, he might totally ignore her, and be demanding that someone who looked more like her big
sister take off her clothes.
The idea that she’d want that with anyone right now—especially someone she worked
with—shocked her almost as much as his sexy voice had. Although she’d spent a lot of time
around artists, they weren’t really her type. Too fucking broody. She was a happy-go-lucky kind
of girl, and someone cutting her mood off at the knees with his constant existential dread was not
something she looked for in a partner. Not that her choice in partners was great anyhow.
Her last choice had been the least winning of all, and he was only art industry-adjacent.
Another reason why she shouldn’t be attracted to her only client so far; getting involved with her
old boss had completely destroyed the life she’d built independent of her parents. And the kicker

was that Simon had been more interested in her parents’ connections than he ever had been in
her—or at least their money. It all would have been much easier had he skipped pretending to
want to be her boyfriend and just asked for access to her parents’ checkbook.
Diana and Carlos Gonzalez were such social climbers that they would have opened up the
coffers without Simon having “lower himself” to date Letty. The shame of him saying those
words washed over her and made it even less likely that she would follow through with this
getting naked with her new boss thing.
No matter how much her girl parts responded to the growly sculptor in front of her.
But a nun would find this guy nearly impossible to resist. Between the shaggy dark hair, the T-
shirt straining muscles of his torso, and the denim-testing legs spread wide, it would take a saint
not to want to slide right in there and put her mouth against his.
She squeezed the strap of her bag with her right hand and wiped the sweaty left palm on her
jeans. The e-mail arranging for the job had indicated that the work might be physical, but she’d
thought it was mostly clean-up and organization.
“You’ve never done this before?” Finally, he looked at her. His green eyes made the cement
floor underneath her dip and sway. They should make a paint color out of that bright, clear green.
She’d seen a couple of pictures of him while doing research to make sure that she wasn’t
showing up at the den of a serial killer. Part of her evergreen efforts to stay sexy and not get
murdered. Of course, after she’d said yes to the job, she’d done a deep Google dive. And an
image search. He was an up-and-coming-sculptor from a local Cuban-American family. But a
photograph couldn’t depict the pure impact of being in the room with him. She couldn’t even
hold his gaze, instead looking at his forearms. Mistake. Thick and roped with muscle from
working clay and other media into abstract figure sculptures, they made her wonder what it
would be like to have him touch her. She wondered what his blunt fingertips would do to her
flesh, the dents it would make on her thighs.
Although she should have walked out the door as soon as he’d told her to take off her clothes,
her feet seemed glued to the swaying floor. “I’m not here for sex.”
His face contorted in confusion. “Of course not.”
“But the clothes?”
“You’re here to model, right?”
A semi-hysterical laugh escaped her mouth before she could stop it. This whole interaction had
been surreal. The idea that—for even a second—this perfect specimen of man would hire her to
have sex with him was ludicrous.
The idea that she’d nude model was even more farfetched. The only times she’d gotten naked
with anyone else in the room, they’d hadn’t seen her. Her college boyfriend hadn’t questioned
her preference to get busy in the dark. And Simon had preferred sex in the dark, especially
since—as he’d shared when breaking up with her—he apparently couldn’t stomach her stomach
rolls. So, the idea that anyone would want to look at any kind of rendering of her—no matter
how abstract—in a gallery or in their home made another crazed giggle bubble up in her throat.
“You’re not here from the agency, are you?”
She shook her head. Under his gaze, even the brush of her hair against the bare skin where the
sleeve of her top ended registered as sensual. With him looking at her, she could feel everything
in a way she’d never experienced.
Definitely not with Simon.
Thinking of her former lover and former boss doused the tingling sensations aroused by Max
all at once. It wouldn’t do to forget that she was out of a job, becoming an entrepreneur, and

close to the end of her savings account. If this didn’t work, she’d have to beg her parents for
help. Or—shudder—move back into their mausoleum of a house.
Maybe she could get over her embarrassment about her body and do what he asked. Just this
once. No one would ever recognize her.
Still, she needed to tell the truth. Too many lies had landed her in this tough spot. “No. I’m
here to organize for you.”
Another confused look.
“You e-mailed my company.” She motioned around the cluttered warehouse studio. “You said
you needed someone to get all your ‘stuff under control.’”
His jaw flexed underneath his thick, black beard. It was an angry gesture, but there was
something so primal about this man that it turned her on. “I didn’t e-mail your company. I’m
organized just fine.”
Her stomach dropped through the cement floor to the pits of hell. Without a reference from
Simon, she’d been blackballed from every gallery in the city. No one was going to hire her on if
the executive director of Art Basel refused to give her a reference. Never mind that it was his
inattention and philandering that had lost them a couple of large sponsorships last year. No one
would believe her. She was a nobody, and her parents were considered tacky.
If she’d just been able to establish herself as a competent personal assistant and professional
organizer—sort of a Girl Friday—for a few local artists, she might have been able to repair her
reputation enough to get a real job. Her plan as soon as she’d gotten the e-mail from Max, or
apparently someone posing as him, had been to parlay working with him to working with his
cousin’s new wife, Maya Pascual-Hernandez. With two clients, she would have been able to get
back into a respectable gallery.
But, this was all just a joke. Max’s bewilderment at her presence meant that someone had
posed as him just to fuck with her. Maybe Simon? But she couldn’t fathom him being that cruel,
not even after what he’d done to her.
Hot tears threatened to flow down her face, but she rolled her shoulders back and pushed the
tears away. She looked down to reach into her purse. The most hopeful scenario was that he’d
forgotten sending the e-mail. In her experience, creative types sometimes got so lost in the work
that things like e-mails didn’t register.
And Max Delgado didn’t even have a website. She could only pray that he was forgetful as
well as a troglodyte.
She quickly scrolled through the e-mail on her phone, found his last message, and walked
toward him, noticing him reaching for his whiskey glass and stiffening his spine as she
approached. Had her whole plan for getting her life back on track not been crumbling around her
ears, she would have giggled again. The idea that a man taller than her, who probably—in a
surprise twist—weighed more than her, would shrink away when she walked toward him was as
laughable as anything that had happened today. He was probably sure she was going to kiss him.
“I just want to show you the e-mail.”
He grimaced. “I told you. I didn’t send an e-mail.”
“Yes, you did.” Her mother had always told her that her stubborn streak would get her into
trouble, but today it was going to save her. She had receipts and he was going to listen to her.
Shaking her phone at him. “Here, read it.”
Given no other choice, he glanced at the phone and read the short confirmation e-mail he’d
sent yesterday. “I didn’t send this.”

“So, someone hacked you and hired someone to help you clean up your studio and design a
website?” That was almost as unbelievable as someone thinking that she should be a model.
“No. Not someone.”
“What are you talking about?” It was though they were speaking an entirely different
language. Even though his speech revealed a subtle accent, something that made the cadence of
his voice all the more appealing, she could understand his words, just not their meaning.
He made the growling sigh again and pushed her phone back into her hands, careful not to
touch her. Somehow, the disappointment of that sunk in even though her panic was near total.
“My grandmother.”

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