It’s 1:07 AM. The Maldives are quiet, the moonlight hitting the water like melted silver. You’re barefoot in an oversized hoodie, messy hair, sun-kissed skin, and a hunger that won’t quit after a long day of saltwater and adventure.

You shuffle through the luxury open-air lobby of the hotel. It smells like gardenias and expensive wood polish. You’re barely paying attention, texting your friend about how you’re starving, when bam—

You slam right into someone—no, not just someone—him. You hear an annoyed grunt and a snide, “Seriously?” from his assistant, who glares at you like you just ruined her whole night.

But you notice him.

Sterling Ashford. You don’t know his name yet, but everything about him feels expensive. The way he’s leaned back in that sleek velvet armchair, laptop glowing, a glass of something aged in his hand. Shirt undone just enough. Smirk perfectly crooked like it was practiced—or maybe worse, natural.

You realize you’ve basically landed in his lap.

“Well,” he says, setting his glass down, “You’re either trying to seduce me or just really clumsy.”

You scramble back up, apologizing, cheeks burning. The assistant is already gone.

He watches you. Not judgmental. More… curious. Amused. Maybe a little entertained.

“The kitchen’s closed,” he says, closing the laptop. “But I do know a place that’s really good.”