Wrecked By The Bad Boy Daddy (Miami After Sunset #5)

1. One Reckless Night

ONE RECKLESS NIGHT

RILEY

Ishoved through the heavy glass doors of the Bayshore Event Pavilion, and the humid Miami night slapped me in the face like I'd tried to skip the cover charge.

The recruiter's perfumed voice still rang in my ears—"We're looking for someone with more experience, Ms. Brooks, but good luck"—as if 'experience' could sprout out of thin air while my bank balance shriveled by the hour.

My sandals slapped the slick sidewalk, each step a mental click of numbers: rent due in twelve days, the tuition payment I'd promised Maddie next month, and one dented Corolla that desperately needed new brakes if I hoped to keep chauffeuring nanny kids to swim lessons.

At this rate, Miami wasn't just going to chew up my dream of becoming a luxury-event planner; it was going to swallow the bones and pick its teeth with them.

A neon-pink rideshare car zipped past, blasting reggaetón that thudded in my sternum.

The smell of fried plantains drifted from a food truck, and my stomach growled, reminding me I'd traded dinner for the secondhand blazer buttoned over my yellow sundress.

I'd hoped it would make me look polished.

Spoiler: polyester couldn't perform miracles.

I pressed my phone against my cheek to wipe sweat off the screen, then opened the banking app again—as if the numbers might have magically changed in the last three blocks.

Seventy-three dollars and nine cents. My throat tightened.

That wouldn't even cover an hour of valet parking at some of the weddings I was supposed to plan someday.

I stopped at the edge of Biscayne Boulevard, waiting for the light, and forced myself to inhale the briny, exhaust-laced air.

"Okay, Riley," I told the trembling, less-than-optimistic part of me, "we pivot. We hustle. We absolutely do not go back to Tennessee with our tail between our legs." Except the part that actually believed that pep talk felt smaller than the sea-breeze gnats currently feasting on my ankles.

The walk signal flicked green. As I stepped off the curb, my phone buzzed—Maddie FaceTiming from the tiny studio apartment she rented near campus. I almost rejected the call, but her avatar wobbled, and homesickness punched a fresh hole in my chest. I swiped to answer.

"Hey, sis, you look like melted ice cream," she said, her voice bright.

I laughed, sweat trickling down my spine. "Tell me something I don't know."

I dodged a construction barricade, the neon glow skimming puddles while the bass from a party boat made the sidewalk hum beneath my sandals.

All that energy—strangers dancing, spending—while I was an overdraft away from packing up.

I didn't belong in their world yet, but I refused to leave it behind.

Maddie's pixelated face filled half the screen, warm string lights glowing above the cramped kitchenette behind her. "You walking back to the shoebox or straight into the Atlantic?"

"Depends which costs less." I veered around a throng of tourists spilling from a party shuttle, shielding the phone with my palm. "Interview bombed. Savings are on life support. Just another glamorous night in the Magic City."

Maddie's mouth twisted—part sympathy, part strategist. "Okay, reality check: you're burning out doing fifteen nanny gigs that pay in goldfish crackers. Either quit babysitting altogether or flip it into something that actually helps with the event planning."

"I need those gigs," I hissed, though the night hid my blush. "Rent, remember?"

"Sure, but you could market yourself as a private childcare concierge for the same yacht people who hire those event planners.

Double your rate, take fewer clients, build a better network.

" She tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips.

"You keep saying Miami's about connections—so make the nanny thing a VIP gateway instead of a hamster wheel. "

I stalled beneath a streetlamp buzzing with mosquitoes. Child-concierge sounded like the kind of résumé bullet printed on creamy cardstock. But it also sounded risky—rich parents could smell inexperience the way sharks scented blood. "And if that flops?"

"Then come home and we'll open a taco truck," she deadpanned. "Point is, staying miserable just because it's safe isn't a plan. You deserve a night off. Blow off some steam, Ry."

"I'm fine," I muttered, toeing a loose piece of asphalt. The word echoed hollow in my chest.

Maddie's stare softened. "You've been in Miami three months and haven't done one reckless thing. Mom would say—that means you're overdue for a little chaos."

Heat pricked my eyes at the mention of Mom's mantra. I blinked it away. "I guess one drink won't bankrupt me."

"Atta girl. Go somewhere with a view. Dance. Kiss a stranger if you want." She waggled her brows. "Text me when you're home so I know you didn't join a cult."

"Love you too," I said, my voice scratchy.

She signed off with a two-finger salute. The call ended, leaving my reflection ghosting on the black screen—sweaty hair, determined eyes. I drew a breath that tasted like salt, diesel, and possibility.

A block ahead, Key Biscayne Causeway glittered with taillights streaming toward the island's bars. I checked my dwindling battery, squared my shoulders, and stepped toward the neon. One drink, one reckless night, I promised the girl in the screen. Then back to the grind tomorrow.

One budget-busting rideshare later, I was crossing the causeway and trying not to calculate what the trip home would cost. I'd shoved the blazer into my tote, freed the straps of my yellow sundress, and finger-combed my damp hair into something that almost looked intentional.

The bar perched on the edge of Key Biscayne like a neon-tipped pier, its stilts rising from dark water that smelled of salt and spilled beer.

Inside, floodlights pulsed aquamarine and fuchsia, matching the underglow of yachts moored just beyond the windows.

I slid past a knot of sunburned deckhands chanting "one more, one more," their white uniforms streaked with sand as if they'd wrestled on the beach before clocking out.

The DJ blended reggaetón with yacht-rock guitar riffs—a bizarre, yet perfect, soundtrack for this island limbo where billionaires and busboys bought the same six-dollar rum punch. My sandals stuck to spilled sugar as I shouldered up to the bar.

"Flor de Ca?a, splash of lime," I told the barkeep, aiming for a woman-of-the-world vibe, not the "I just Googled 'fancy rum drinks'" truth. He raised a brow at my yellow sundress, slightly wrinkled from spending the evening trapped beneath a blazer, but poured a generous measure anyway.

The amber liquid caught the house lights, and for a heartbeat, it looked expensive—like possibility in a glass. My first sip was a revelation. The rum cut through the humid thickness in my lungs, warm and sharp enough to feel like actual progress.

Over the crowd's roar, a yacht crew popped what sounded like their third bottle of prosecco, foam arcing across the teak dance floor.

They toasted a captain named Marco for "nailing that insane docking," and I found myself grinning at their reckless celebration.

Dock well, drink well. Simple, elegant math.

Maybe Maddie was right. If I couldn't buy stability yet, I could at least taste adrenaline.

I swayed to the beat, letting the bass vibrations shake loose the day's rejection. A flash of seaside air drifted through the open sliders—salt, diesel, night-blooming jasmine—and for the first time since the interview, I wasn't calculating rent or brakes or bank balances. Just... vibing.

I raised my glass to the ceiling fan. "To chaos," I whispered, and tossed back another swallow. The rum burned, then bloomed into heat low in my belly—a dare masquerading as courage.

A cheer rippled near the pool tables, pulling my gaze across the room. A group of women in satin sashes clinked blue cocktails, while a silver-haired older couple slow-danced as if the flashing lights were candlelight. The whole place vibrated with stories, all colliding for one night only.

I pressed the rim of my glass to my lips, scanning the shadows beyond the bar's far edge—searching, maybe, for my own collision.

That's when I saw him.

He sat alone at the far end of the horseshoe bar, a dark island of stillness in the neon tide. While everyone else bobbed and shouted, he barely moved—one forearm braced on the polished wood, broad shoulders owning their space with the quiet confidence of a jaguar on a branch.

The lights kept flicking from aqua to magenta, but whatever color hit him seemed to fade, as if the bar wasn't bold enough to paint on that skin.

Tattoo ink snaked from under the cuff of his black T-shirt, shading the ridges of muscle until it disappeared beneath the sleeve.

A lowball glass rested near his fingers, untouched except for the single bead of condensation sliding toward the coaster. Whiskey—something top-shelf and peaty, if I trusted the amber hue. He hadn't taken a sip in a while; maybe he was too busy watching.

Not the stage, not the dancers. The exits.

His eyes—gunmetal? slate?—tracked the room with the measured sweep of a security camera, lingering on every doorway before returning to the mirror behind the bar. It wasn't paranoia; it looked like habit. The kind forged by danger and long nights spent expecting it.

Two drunk deckhands lurched near him, bumping elbows. Before I could wince, the bigger one glanced over his shoulder, caught the man's gaze, and muttered, "Sorry," as they scurried away, suddenly remembering the rest of the bar existed. That quiet apology traveled farther than the DJ's bass.

Whoever he was, the crowd's noise seemed to bend around him, as if volume itself respected a boundary.

I found my drink half-empty and my pulse inexplicably full. Walking away would have been smart. Instead, I angled sideways, pretending to admire the glowing liquor wall, giving myself permission to look again.