When a 24-year-old construction worker poses as the fiancé of a comatose Cuban supermodel, she must find a way to renege her lie after falling for his firefighter cousin.
* * * * *
When 24-year-old cons...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
There's an old proverb that goes: an ocean breeze will put a mind at ease.
Living in Miami, I've experienced it. The breath of salty air as it caresses your cheek. The way it fills your soul with an ethereal sort of peace. But the saying only applies if you're lounging on the beach, and not working the construction road crew across from it.
"Yo, Molly!" Uncle Gus calls over the hum of midday traffic. "Lunch in thirty—and don't forget it's FriYay. We're hittin' up that deli on the corner. The one with the three-foot-long sub challenge. I'm going for it, baby!"
I give him a thumbs up, but I'm too preoccupied to think about spicy Italian grinders.
I glance at the front of the fancy condo next to us, the one with a low-growing palm tree on both sides of the white stucco and glass entrance.
The crew I'm assigned to has been working this stretch of road for the past two weeks, and I've come to memorize the daily routine of some of the beachfront locals. Like the UPS lady who delivers to the gift shops along the boardwalk, and the old man who stops by a nearby bench to watch the heavy machinery chug down the road.
And now, as the afternoon sun blazes down on my face and the smell of salt and asphalt-scented heat swirl around me, I wait for another expected event.
Like clockwork, a blonde beast barrels through the condo doors, the prepubescent boy holding onto its leash flailing after him. Only this time, something unexpected happens, and my heart jackhammers in my chest.
"Oh, shit."
The out-of-control canine makes a beeline toward my crotch, his wet nose drilling into the space between my legs.
I let out a squeal, and try to keep the SLOW sign I'm holding onto steady. "Oh my God—get your mutt away from me!"
It's not that I don't like animals, I'm just not a dog person. In fact, I've been downright terrified of them ever since my neighbor's chihuahua took a bite out of my ankle when I was ten.
The kid pulls back on the leash until they're both safely on the sidewalk. "He's not a mutt. He's a four thousand dollar American Pit Bull Terrier."
"Oh, like that's any better!" I scowl as the dog happily drags the boy away, and remind myself that their appearance is a precursor to a much more pleasant experience.
And then a familiar movement catches my attention, and my eyes dart to a sprawling second floor balcony.
There he is...
A dark-haired man emerges from his condo, the sleeves of his black T-shirt clinging to tanned biceps, his boxers sitting excruciatingly low on his hips.
I've had the pleasure of witnessing this show for the past ten business days.
What I've learned so far: the man who lives there is a creature of habit. He rolls out of bed around noon and wanders onto his terrace, his glossy black waves still mussed from sleep. Shortly after, he appears at the first floor entrance, a tote slung over his muscley shoulder and a cell in his hand. Then, he crosses the street and disappears into the throng of perfect bodies sunbathing on the beach.
