I arrive at Baggage Claim after a long trek through the Miami airport. I glance around, and then spot a woman who looks like she's in her early twenties waving to me and heading in my direction. She's absolutely stunning, and I just stand there admiring her style as she approaches.

Her lipstick-red sleeveless tank dress is ruched slightly on one side, with a tulip hemline. Her dark hair is shoulder-length and falls in those soft waves that are so often demonstrated on TikTok tutorials but are, at least for me, impossible to achieve.

"Hadley Reese . . . Jones?" she confirms, with the Jones sounding almost like an afterthought.

"Yes." I take her extended hand. "My grandfather sent you?"

"I recognized you from the photo he showed me. The one where you received some award in Philadelphia. I'm Martina Santana Diaz."

"It's nice to meet you." If she thinks it's odd that the photo my grandfather has of me is from a news clipping, not a family picture, she's too polite to say so.

I turn my attention back to the long circular conveyor belt, and the chute that is starting to spit luggage onto it. A classic black Louis Vuitton suitcase cruises past me and I watch it continue around the curve. I glance up, half expecting to see Max. It's exactly the kind of luggage I imagine he owns.

I reach up absently and touch my lips, then drop my hand when I see the jerk who splashed coffee on me snag the bag and hurry away, pulling it behind him as he heads for the sign labeled Ground Transportation.

I look back at the conveyer belt just in time to see my own bag slide past unnoticed. Great. Now I'll have to wait until it completes the loop and comes back this way again. Unless I want to push my way through the crowd running after it like an idiot.

Max probably has people who pick up his bags for him. Did I really expect to find him standing here waiting at baggage claim? He's probably sitting in the back of a hired car right now, checking his emails.

He was just flirting with you on the plane, that's all, I tell myself. But that kiss. If I close my eyes, I can still feel it. I'd be lying to myself if I didn't admit I've never felt such a strong instant attraction before. He looked at me like he knew exactly what I wanted.

I reach in the pocket of my jeans and touch the card he gave me with his number.

I remind myself of the look in his eyes when he asked me to point out the guy who carelessly burned my arm. How it made me feel like there was something beneath the surface that could be dangerous.

Before I can spiral, my bag – which is definitely not Louis Vuitton - comes around again, and this time I focus my attention before it's too late.

We grab my luggage and head for the short-term parking area, where Martina points to a large SUV. She must see the look on my face, because she explains that it's a rental.

"You rented an SUV to pick me up at the airport?"

"Well, the law firm did, not me personally. Because you could fit maybe one of those bags in the trunk of my car. If you're lucky."

"You know," I tell her as we load everything in, "I could have just gotten an Uber."

"Mr. Reese prefers the personal touch."

If that were true, he would have picked me up himself. Not that I would have enjoyed being trapped for the length of the car ride to downtown Miami with the man who, until recently, appeared to be in denial about my entire existence.

"So, you work for the law firm?" I ask her as she merges into the multiple lanes of traffic exiting the airport.

"I do." She turns a brilliant smile on me. "I'm your new legal assistant."

We're on a freeway now, and my first thought is how very different Miami is from Philadelphia. How tall the palm trees are, how bright the sun in a sky that is so much more a vivid blue than you would ever see in Philly. I lived here for awhile as a child, but I don't really remember it. Pretty much the only part of it I do remember is leaving. It's all jumbled up in my mind; the frantic packing, the combination of desperation and fear, mixed in with hope.

"Hadley?"

I realize Martina has been speaking to me. "Sorry, I got caught up in the view."

"No problem. I was just asking, how was your flight?"

"A bit decadent, to tell the truth." In more ways than one. "I'm not used to flying first class."

Martina blasts the horn and cuts across a line of traffic onto an exit ramp. I make a conscious effort not to grab onto the seat.

"So tell me more about this decadent flight," she says. "Were you referring to champagne and chocolates, or was it something else?"

"Definitely the champagne and chocolates didn't hurt, but I also had an interesting conversation with a guy in the next seat who looked like he stepped right off the cover of GQ Magazine. And I'm wondering if all the guys in Miami look like that."

"Oh, yummy. And I can give you a definite no. Single?"

"We didn't get that far. Me, yes. Him? I think so. No wedding ring, and his flirt was definitely on." I think about Max, the intensity of his eyes, and that brain-numbing kiss.

The word flirt is a serious understatement.

"Well, well. This sounds promising. Did he ask for your number?"

"No, but I told him the name of the law firm. He actually said he might bring some business our way."

"Aren't you the little rainmaker - and you haven't even set foot in the office yet."

"I'll probably never hear from him again," I say, but I don't believe it. And I don't mention the fact that he gave me his card. For some reason I can't explain, I'm reluctant to tell Martina his name.

"Any stops you need to make before we get to the condo?"

"No. Just to the condo is fine."

"I think you're smart not to stay with your grandparents," Martina says, assuming I had a choice in the matter. The fact is, I wasn't invited to stay with them. Instead, the firm is putting me up in a condo that's usually reserved for out-of-town clients.

My grandparents, I've learned, live in an ultra-exclusive community on a private barrier island located just off the coast of Miami. You can only get there by ferry or helicopter, or by yacht if you happen to own one. It is populated by celebrities and the super rich, only a fraction of whom make it their permanent residence.

"I mean," she continues, "I think it would be hard to work with your grandfather all day and then also be living in the same house."

"I like my independence," I tell her. And it's true. Still, I find it odd that he didn't even mention me staying at the house, since part of the impetus for him to reach out to me after all these years was supposedly my grandmother's rapidly declining health.

Martina uses her phone to scan us into the parking garage, and tells me she'll text me the link for the app.

We manage to get all the luggage in with one trip. Once we're inside, she offers to help me unpack.

"Are you getting paid by the hour?" I ask her, and she laughs.

"Well, it is Friday, so technically I'm on the clock. But as long as I hang out with you until 5:00 I don't have to go back to the office."

We both stare at the suitcases.

"I'm really not in the mood to unpack."

"How about this. I was planning to ask you to go shopping tomorrow. We could go now instead." She pulls a credit card out of her small crossbody purse and flashes it at me. I lean in and see it's a platinum American Express card in the name of the law firm.

"Shopping?"

"Like I told Mr. Reese, you're coming from Philadelphia. A, your suits are probably all wool. That's not going to work when temperatures hit the 90's here. And B, you were a government employee working as a Public Defender, right? I bet you weren't supposed to look rich and fancy. Boring conservative off-the-rack suits, am I right?"

"There's nothing wrong with my clothes," I tell her, feeling defensive even though I have a suspicion that her point is well taken.

"Listen. You've been representing people who can't afford a lawyer. I mean, that's what a Public Defender does, right?"

"Yes, that's right. My legal strategy is what mattered, for heaven's sake, not how much I spent on my suit."

"Exactly. You're in a different world now. Reese and Associates' clients are very wealthy. And they pay very high billing rates to be represented by our firm. The office design reflects that. And so does the appearance of our lawyers, which includes you."

"So you were sent today to make sure I'm presentable when I show up for work."

"Hey, don't get mad. I wish someone would tell me I had to spend $20,000 on a new wardrobe as part of my job."

"Twenty—" I think my mouth might be hanging open. I'm speechless.

"We can go over," she assures me. "It's just a guideline."

Unbelievable. She actually thinks my objection is that the budget is too low?

"I don't expect the law firm to pay for my clothes," I say, trying to convey how completely ridiculous I'm finding this whole conversation.

I can't quite push away the thought of how much this $20,000 my grandfather so casually handed Martina to take me shopping would have meant when my mother was dying of cancer all those years ago.

And this same man – her own father – had cut her off without a cent.

Martina looks perplexed.

"Look, you don't want to get me fired, do you? You can hash it out with Mr. Reese later, pay him back if you want to, but don't make me have to explain to him why I failed to follow his specific instructions. I need this job."

"Well," I say, resigned, "I guess I don't have any choice."

***

By late afternoon, Martina has found me four new designer suits, several dresses with coordinating jackets, and a collection of blouses, most of which have necklines I would consider too daring to wear to court in Philadelphia and all of which Martina has proclaimed so, so conservative. I guess I have to take her word for it. I also found some casual outfits and a very short glittery gold cocktail dress, plus a pink dress with a sweetheart neckline that Martina says is "innocence laced with power."

I feel like we're already friends. Which is why I've agreed to go check out a new Miami club she couldn't stop chattering on about tonight. One that's apparently owned by a guy with connections to organized crime; as if that makes it more exciting. She wants to show me what South Beach is all about.

I don't have the heart to tell her that clubs aren't really my thing.

Back at the condo, I manage to shower and style my hair passably well, put on my makeup, and slip into the pink dress and a pair of strappy sandals. Martina pulls up just as I step out into the night air.

She's in a bright blue Mazda Miata with the top down. And she sparkles. She's wearing a silver shimmery dress with a deep vee in the front and a very short skirt, and impossibly high black sandals with thin ankle straps.

"Wow," I tell her.

"Wow yourself." She cocks her head. "You know, I had my doubts about that pink dress when I saw it on the rack, but on you it's killer. Let's go have some fun!"

"I'm all in for that." And I am.

It's occurred to me - perhaps after my impulsive dalliance with Max Bennett - that I don't have enough fun in my life, and I'm not really looking forward to my first day in the office on Monday. Which is apparently also the first time I'll meet my grandfather, since he said nothing about stopping by the house this weekend. The whole situation is just . . . odd.

Maybe a night out at a club with Martina is exactly what I need to take my mind off things I can't control.

When we pull up outside the club Martina hands her keys to the valet, and my heart sinks. There's a long line of people waiting behind the red velvet rope to get in, and all the women are gorgeous and young and dressed to kill.

"Don't worry," Martina says when she notices me surveying the long line. "We're skipping all that. I ordered ahead for bottle service, so we have a booth."

She struts right up to the bouncer at the head of the line, and I try to copy her air of confidence. She flashes her phone, and like magic the velvet rope opens and we are through.

"How much did this cost?" I ask, leaning my head closer so she can hear me over the pulsating music.

"Twelve hundred," she says nonchalantly, and I gape at her.

"Twelve hundred dollars?" I ask, and she nods.

"That's what it costs not to stand in line."

"Let me guess. The law firm is paying for this."

"Mr. Reese wants you to feel welcome. He gave me the credit card and told me to spend whatever."

All I'm thinking at this point is that I hope "whatever" doesn't get my new legal assistant fired before we even get one day working together.

As we are directed to our table, I try to look like this is no big deal, while taking it all in. This place is huge, and the dance floor is filled with pulsating bodies. The music is techno EDM and there's a live DJ on an elevated stage. Colored spotlights sweep through the venue and bounce off a giant disco ball suspended from the high ceiling. I can see at least two bars, and throngs of people pressing up to them.

Our server takes our order, which I leave entirely in Martina's hands. It seems like only moments later she's back with a tray holding an ice bucket, a bottle of Grey Goose, cranberry juice, club soda, and glasses. There are even cranberries and tiny lime wedges on cocktail picks.

We watch as she mixes our drinks and then says she'll be back to check on us later.

I settle in and take a long sip of my drink. "Good choice," I tell Martina, but she isn't listening to me. She's staring around me to the left of the dance floor.

"Oh. My. God. It's him," she says, elbowing me and gesturing with her chin. "That's the guy I was telling you about. You know, the rich crime boss that owns the club. And it looks like he's heading right to our table."

"Crime boss?"

She nods and leans in, keeping her voice low. "You wouldn't believe the stories."

I can feel it, like an electrical current running through my entire body. Before even looking, I know. This is the man with connections to organized crime?

The man who hinted at bringing legal business to me, and even mentioned a specific case he'll be calling me about next week.

The man who kissed me and promised to see me again soon.

This can't be anything but trouble. I'm pretty sure representing a crime boss is not what my grandfather has in mind for his elite conservative law firm's first foray into criminal law.

I should leave right now, before I get in any deeper.

I turn my head. My eyes meet his.

"Max," I breathe the word.