MY EXTRA

LILITH

The man across from the arrivals terminal in Florida is the kind of beautiful that should come with a warning label.

Grittily beautiful.

The kind of handsome that can ruin your life with a look.

And gazing at him?

It devastates me.

He's tall, lean in a black linen suit that hugs him like a confidence. He walks like he owns every inch of concrete between us and every bit of air I try to breathe.

Nobody is supposed to look that good.

Least of all him.

But when he turns to speak to a woman across the room, I notice-he's not the man I've been trying not to remember. Not the one who destroyed my career with a single tactical silence. This man has kind eyes. Brown, not icy blue. His voice lacks the biting British accent, the one that curls around your spine and cuts through the softest bits of you.

No. This man's a stranger.

Not Cass Lyon.

The baggage clerk's voice breaks into my daydream.

"Sorry, Miss Deborah. Your bag was last spotted in New York, but it hasn't been transferred since."

The air rushes out of me. "That's impossible. I need to have that bag."

She smiles sympathetically like an offering. "If it's not located within twenty-four hours, you'll be reimbursed up to five hundred dollars.".

Iqueeze the heels of my hands over my eyes and breathe deeply.

No sleep on the plane. A toothbrush stop at JFK, a worse cup of coffee, and a panic-tipped changeover later-I should've known it was stupid to check all I own into one bag.

Including my medication.

I'm bumped from behind. I turn-bridesmaids, five of them, in a row in matching white dresses, the bride-to-be's sash saying Last Night of Freedom, and they're already halfway drunk on it.

I'm the sole individual here who is not looking for a good time.

"I'm not on vacation," I mutter as I adjust the strap of my crossbody and hold on to the one thing I did not lose-my laptop.

Thank God.

She looks over my ripped jeans and black tank top as though she's cataloging my faults. "Pity."

You have no idea, I feel like telling her. That I'm here because I burned my career for a principle I couldn't ignore. That the same institutions that two months ago wanted to crown me now won't even take a call.

I move into the thick Florida air and notice a man by the exit. Gray hair, linen suit, holding a sign with "Sienna" on it.

"That's me," I tell him. "Lilith. You can call me that."

He looks around. "No bags?"

"Lost," I bite out. "What's your name?"

"Frank Dera, señorita."

I follow him as we weave through the crowd. Tourists in swimsuits and flip-flops, all trying to get away.

"Everybody's here to party," I say to him.

"And you?"

"I'm here to ensure they do it right."

I slide my sunglasses down and let the heat reach my face. Yesterday it was spring in New York. Today it's full summer. The scent of sunscreen and salt hits me like déjà vu for a life I've never lived.

Frank nods toward a sleek Mercedes limousine.

I open the passenger door instead of going around to the back. "I ride up front."

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. I choose a worn paperback from the seat-Eat, Pray, Love.

I hold it up with a smile. "Really? Your own book club selection?"

He chuckles. "My wife says our daughter liked it. I'm trying to understand her better."

My chest hurts in the kindest way. "She's lucky."

"She's like you. Independent."

"Don't tell anyone," I whisper.

He glances at me sideways. "Your parents must be proud."

I smile mirthlessly. "They were proud of the daughter who didn't rock the boat."

There is silence between us until I break it again. "Actually, can we go to the club first? I want to check specs."

He nods. "Clody. It means 'below.'"

We drive, and we pass another massive venue, its sign gleaming like a mirage.