Chapter Eleven
Cece
By the time the Miami skyline starts rising in front of us, I’m tired, hungry, and painfully aware that I’ve somehow agreed to spend an entire weekend alone with Revel St. Clair.
Okay, agreed might be generous.
He invited himself.
I failed to stop him.
There’s a difference.
A very important one that I will absolutely be bringing up later when somebody inevitably accuses me of voluntarily taking a romantic weekend to Miami with him.
Because this is not romantic.
It’s work.
There just happens to be a six-foot-three biker sitting beside me in my Civic looking entirely too pleased with himself after four hours of invading my space, eating my snacks, criticizing my car, and making himself impossible to ignore.
Miami stretches around us in late-morning heat, all tall glass buildings throwing sunlight back at the sky, palm trees bending over wide streets, and flashes of blue water appearing between hotels and condos.
The closer we get to the beach, the brighter everything feels.
White buildings, pastel walls, bright signs, café patios already packed, and people moving around like the day started hours ago without us.
Tomorrow, somewhere in the middle of all this, I’m playing Sol Fuego.
That thought slips in quietly and still manages to flip my stomach.
Fuck.
I look out the window harder, like Miami is somehow going to distract me from the fact that in a little over twenty-four hours, I’ll be standing in front of the biggest crowd I’ve ever played for.
“You’re doing the thing again.”
I glance toward Revel. “What thing?”
He keeps one hand loose on the wheel while the other rests near the gearshift, sunglasses low on his nose. “Where you pretend staring out the window counts as not freaking out.”
“I’m looking at Miami.”
“You’ve been looking at the same building for thirty seconds.”
“It’s a nice building.”
“It’s a fucking parking garage.”
I turn my head enough to glare at him. “Maybe you should take your own advice and focus on what’s in front of you.”
His mouth pulls into a grin. “Oh, Mama, trust me. I’ve been appreciating the view this whole fucking drive.”
His eyes leave the road just long enough to drag slowly over me, making it very fucking clear he isn’t talking about Miami.
I immediately point toward the windshield. “Road.”
He laughs. “See? Traumatized me. I’m never gonna hear that word normally again.”
“That sounds deeply personal and not at all like my problem.”
“Haven’t you noticed anything involving me eventually becomes your problem?”
“Ay, Dios mío.”
He’s still smiling when he turns into the hotel entrance.
The Marisol Hotel & Beach Club sits a block back from the water, all pale coral stucco, arched windows, white stone, and giant palms lining the circular drive. It’s nicer than what I usually book for gigs, but not so fancy that I feel like I need to whisper in the lobby.
There’s a fountain out front surrounded by tropical flowers, brass luggage carts parked beneath the awning, and a sliver of ocean visible between the buildings across the street.
Somewhere behind the hotel, music carries from what I’m guessing is the pool deck, mixing with traffic and voices drifting in from the sidewalk.
I pull up the reservation on my phone and glance at Revel.
“Just so we’re clear, I booked this before I knew you were inviting yourself.”
“Okay?”
“Which means I booked one room. One bed.”
His grin appears instantly. “Sounds perfect.”
“No. It sounds like we need to go inside and see if they have another room or at least something with two beds.”
“Mama, I’m really not seeing the emergency here.”
“I am.”
“Because you don’t trust yourself?”
I slowly turn my head toward him.
He looks entirely too pleased with that question.
“I trust myself perfectly fine. I don’t trust your inability to behave like a normal person for more than twenty consecutive minutes.”
“Fair.” He glances up at the hotel. “But if they’re sold out, I’m not sleeping in the car.”
“You invited yourself. Sounds like a logistical issue you should’ve considered.”
“You’d really make me sleep outside?”
“I’d send you a blanket.”
“Cold.”
“Thoughtful.”
He laughs as he parks, then shuts off the car and looks over at me. “Fine. We’ll go ask. But if there’s only one bed, I’m calling it fate.”
“Ay, cállate.”
I grab my purse and get out before he can make one bed sound any more appealing than it already does.
His laugh follows me out.
The second I straighten beside the car, my lower back protests from the drive. I stretch carefully, hands pressed against my hips, and look toward the strip of ocean visible down the street.
The air smells different here. Saltier. Warmer somehow.
There’s sunscreen, fried food, and that humid coastal smell that immediately makes everything feel like vacation even when you’re technically here to work.
I could like Miami, which is a dangerous thought.
Revel comes around the back of the car and pops the trunk before I even get there.
“I can carry my own stuff,” I tell him as he reaches for the biggest equipment case.
“I know.” He gets both hands around it and lifts it out like it weighs nothing. “Pretty sure that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Carry the heavy shit, look pretty, be useful when required.”
I lean against the side of the Civic, watching his black T-shirt pull tight across his shoulders.
“Something like that.”
He catches me looking and gives me a slow side-eye, mouth tipping into that cocky little grin. “Or did you have something else in mind for me this weekend, Mama?”
I grab my suitcase and start toward the hotel. “Keep walking.”
His laugh follows right behind me.
“And careful with that,” I add over my shoulder, nodding toward the case in his hands.
“Mama, I’ve carried motorcycle engines.”
“And? That is my DJ controller, not a fucking engine. Be careful with her.”
He looks down at it. “Her?”
“Yes, her.”
“Starting to think you care about this thing more than me.”
I glance back at him. “You say that like there was ever any competition.”
He lets out a low laugh. “Damn. Good thing I’m pretty.”
“Debatable.”
“You were staring pretty hard five seconds ago.”
“A moment of weakness.”
“Sure it was.”
I push through the hotel doors before he can get any more pleased with himself, and cool air hits my skin hard enough to make me shiver after the heat outside.
The lobby opens up in front of us with pale tile, brass pendant lights, soft green velvet furniture, and a wall of glass overlooking a courtyard where a long pool glitters between white loungers and palm trees.
A small bar sits tucked into one corner beneath mirrored shelves of bottles, and hanging plants spill down from the ceiling like somebody decided tropical but expensive was the assignment.
Festival weekend has clearly taken over the place.
Half the people checking in have Sol Fuego wristbands already.
A group of girls in bikini tops and cargo pants are taking pictures near the elevators, two guys with equipment cases are arguing with a bellhop, and somebody walks past me wearing enough silver glitter to qualify as reflective safety gear.
I love it.
I try not to smile too much as I approach the desk and hand over my ID.
The woman behind the counter pulls up my reservation, clicks around for a few seconds, then gives me the apologetic smile every traveler recognizes immediately.
“Okay, Ms. Mendez. I have you in 417, one king bed, balcony facing the city. Checkout is Sunday at eleven.”
I glance at Revel.
Then back at her.
“Right. About that.” I hook a thumb toward him. “He was a last-minute addition. Do you have anything with two beds? Or even just a second room?”
Her fingers move over the keyboard again while I silently bargain with the universe.
Come on. Anything.
Another room. A pullout couch. A sad little cot we can shove beside the ice machine.
“Unfortunately, we’re completely booked up because of the festival. I can check for cancellations later this evening, but right now, this is the only room available.”
Of course it is.
Because apparently the universe has jokes.
I slowly turn toward Revel.
He is trying so hard not to smile that it somehow looks worse.
“Not one word.”
His brows lift innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re doing plenty with your face.”
The woman slides two key cards across the counter. “If anything opens up, I can make a note on the reservation.”
“Yes. Please do.”
Revel reaches past me and takes one of the cards, his thumb brushing mine as that smug little grin finally wins.
“One bed,” he murmurs. “Damn. Tragic.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”
He glances around the lobby, then back at me with a slow side-eye. “Mama, you really think after everything that’s happened today, the floor is where I’m ending up?”
My stomach gives an irritating little flip.
I snatch the other key card off the counter. “I think you should carry the expensive equipment upstairs before I decide you’re ending up in the pool.”
His grin widens as he reaches for the case. “See? The weekend's already getting romantic.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“Oh, I will.” He falls into step beside me, giving me a sideways look that is way too pleased with this entire situation. “One room. One bed. Miami. Feels like the universe is finally on my side.”
“The universe has terrible judgment.”
He laughs under his breath as we reach the elevators, and I focus very hard on the glowing numbers above the doors instead of the fact that he looks entirely too comfortable with this arrangement.
This is fine.
Completely manageable.
It’s one room. One bed. Two adults.
Okay, one adult and Revel.
Still, I can handle this.
I’ve handled worse.
I was literally in control of him in the car a few hours ago. Compared to that, sharing a hotel room should be nothing.
The elevator doors slide open and Revel steps inside first, backing up just enough to make room for the equipment case. I follow with my suitcase, and the second the doors close, his eyes drift toward me again.
“You’re thinking too hard.”
“I’m not.”