1. Becca

Chapter 1

Becca

I fight the urge to slam my hands on the counter at the hotel receptionist's desk. The jerk won't even listen to me. He was all smiles as I walked in through the doors, but the second he couldn't find my reservation, his two-facedness rears its ugly head.

" Yes, I do have a reservation." I try to keep my voice low, but blood is pounding in my ears and I have to talk louder to even hear myself. "I even have a confirmation number. I booked this months ago."

I hold out my phone, pointing at the random number and letter combination.

The clerk won't even look at what I have. He looks over my shoulder and smiles at another couple who keep oohing and awing over the decor and the immense views of the ocean. It is breathtaking, but now my joy has fallen from the hope of staying here and I try not to have a panic attack.

"Sir, please, look… I have a reservation."

"Miss, I'll ask you to please leave. You are holding up the line for our paying guests."

I drop my jaw at the audacity of this man in saying I'm not a paying guest. The company may have lost my reservation, but I am a paying guest. I paid $800 for four nights. But standing here waving my phone in his face only makes me look unhinged.

What am I going to do?

Not wanting to make too much of a scene, I step back as I try to collect my composure. I have $500 cash in my pocket. I can either sleep in the airport or try and find somewhere cheap enough for my limited budget. Right like that's going to happen.

But then there's food. I need to eat… and I like to eat. My stomach lets out a huge gurgle reminding me that it's been a while.

This dream vacation has quickly turned into nothing but a nightmare.

The tears begin to boil to the surface, my eyes burning, but I swallow it all down.

I grab my roller bag and let out one final curse as I stomp out of the hotel. I'm annoyed with myself for not listening to my bestie, Harper. She was insistent that I only pack a carry-on bag with the essentials and anything else I can get here. Do I really need ten pairs of shoes?

The suitcase gets stuck in a crack in the pavement and I huff as I try and yank it out and continue on my way. My cheeks flame in embarrassment at the scene I'm making, which isn't helping me keep my composure.

People are everywhere and the city of Rio is bustling like some big concert or sports event let out from the stadium back home in Denver. But I think this is the normal for here.

I don't even know where to start or where to go. Denver, the place I'm from and where I really want to go back to right now.

But there's so much to look at and I'm soon lost in all the sights and sounds on the famous Copacabana Street. Shop windows featuring vibrantly colored swimsuits on shapely women, restaurants with both sweet and savory scents colliding as I pass, and street vendors trying to hand me unknown wrapped meats and cups of local treats. The smells are intoxicating, but since I'm not that adventurous with food, not to mention how on edge my stomach is, I just keep walking.

"Watch it," a man in mint-colored suit grumbles, bumping into my back, as I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, my eyes around. I stumble and barely catch my footing but continue forward.

A little patio appears on the corner, and by the coffee cup on the large glass window, I'm going to say it's a cafe. I can go there and take a moment to breathe and pull myself together.

In other words, I can call Harper my voice of reason.

Pulling my suitcase behind me and clutching my backpack tightly to my side while I wrap my purse around my shoulders, I head inside and find an available seat. Once I'm situated, a waiter immediately asks for my order.

Now this is service.

I scan the menu, and I'm grateful there's English next to the Portuguese. I figure when in Brazil, I should order what the Brazilians order, so I get a cafezinho. In my research, I learned this is the epitome of coffee in this country.

Once the waiter leaves, I calm down only until the waiter slides in front of me lowering the dainty cup on a saucer to the table and I jump. He cocks his head with an unspoken question, but I smile and thank him. With a tentative sip and sigh, the scorching goodness melts away what's just happened.

It can't be that bad.

I pull out my phone, and speed-dial Harper.

"Hey… babe, don't… sorry, Becca. Hello." Harper's panting causes me to pause.

"Why do you sound out of breath?"

Nothing comes from the other end, and then I hear Harper say she needs to take a break in a garbled voice.

"Are you working out?"

Harper snickers and says, "You could say that."

"Oh, God, are you and Bastian doing it…"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"Um, no, you're right. I have a problem." I don't let her sexcapade deter me. I need my best friend and stat.

"Are you okay?" Urgency laces her tone. "Babe, really, I need a break." I hear shuffling feet and then a door closes.

I ease my shoulders at how I can always rely on my best friend.

"I think so. The hotel…" My chest hiccups and the dam that held the tears back starts to get cracks. I hate crying in public, making this ten times worse. "The hotel… lost my… reservation," I choppily relay, "and now I don't have… anywhere to stay." The last word is on a wail.

"Oh, Becca. Honey, I'm so sorry."

I sniffle. "I think I'm going to come home." I shut my eyes and let the tears fall freely. I don't care if I'm embarrassing myself in another city or shoot, in another country. At this moment, I want to be home with the mountains in Denver in front of me, making me feel grounded. The water is beautiful, but it's doing absolutely nothing for me. I want familiarity.

"Okay, take a deep breath… and let it out slowly."

Sniffling and gasping, I say, "I don't think that's going to help." My stubborn streak is peeking its head in and it's always worse when I'm out of my element. Everything blurs and I quickly pull off my glasses to swipe at the fat tears threatening to fall.

I take a steady breath and open my eyes. A man is sitting across from me at my table. I jolt in my seat at his sudden appearance.

"Uh, excuse me, that chair is… taken," I say, pulling my purse closer.

Of course, it's not. But why is a stranger sitting casually across from me when there are ten other open tables?

The guy smirks and crosses his arms in front of him on the table, leaning a little closer. He doesn't say anything and that's even worse than if he started speaking Portuguese and I was in the dark about what he was saying. It's like he's trying to speak to me with his eyes. And unfortunately, what I'm seeing in those coffee bean black eyes is a deep dark cavern to get lost in and I almost want to fall in.

I lower my gaze and try to ignore him as Harper asks, "What's going on?"

I turn my head to the side and lower my voice. "This guy sat at my table."

"Does he speak English? Maybe he can help?"

I'm doubly annoyed that my best friend wants me to go into dangerous territory and make nice with a man who, when even sitting, towers over me. He's not just tall, he's professional basketball player tall.

Tall, tall. Long and lean.

Turning further away, I cup my hand around the phone's mic. "Seriously? That sounds like how someone gets abducted, Harper," I say her name in a scolding tone. "I'm just going to head back to the airport and wait until I can get back on a plane home."

A thick, deep voice breaks into my conversation and causes erotic chills to weave along my spine. "That won't work."

I snap around and gape at him.

He speaks… English. Very good English.

The man's tan skin screams sun-worshiper, and his dark hair has sun-kissed blond streaks. He's beautiful, and I hate how attracted I am to him. Like an American moth to a Brazilian flame.

"Did the guy just say something?" Harper says and I can tell she's getting way too invested in this moment.

"Yes." I keep eye contact with him, hoping it will make him uncomfortable, but it seems to spur him on.

His perfect white teeth flash as he smiles with an off-kilter quality that only makes him that much sexier, and he says, "I can help you get a place."

Shaking my head, I respond, "No, thank you." I'm curt with my words, clipping each one.

The man sits back, eyeing me closely as he sips his coffee— amusement dances in his gaze.

"Do you mind? I need to talk to my friend." I flick my hands at him, like I can force him to move.

"I don't mind. Talk away, bebê." He waves his hand for me to continue.

Did he just call me babe in Portuguese?

"O-kaaay." For some reason every time he speaks, I'm less and less on edge, and as much as I like it, I don't. I don't want to be comfortable and let down my guard. I've done that one too many times in life.

Harper clears her voice. "Maybe he can help, Bec. Does he look like a serial killer?"

The guy chuckles, and I blush knowing that he can hear her just as easily as she can hear him. But my annoyance is building to an all-time high, and I decide that if he wants to nose in, then I can make him feel uncomfortable.

"He just laughed," I say, now staring right into those cavernous eyes.

"You know, not everyone is untrustworthy," Harper says softly.

I scoff. "Oh, puh-lease, every guy in my life has been just that."

The man's shoulders drop a little, and he tips his head. His eyes soften as he watches me.

"Great. Now he's being sympathetic to my past with jerkaholes."

He tries to stifle a laugh, but his chest betrays his amusement. And I try to stop it, but my lips rise into a soft smile.

"Give him a chance to explain," my friend pulls me back.

He lifts his eyebrows.

A smile pulls at my lips even though I don't want it to, but the interaction is beginning to become amusing.

Just a little…

"Fine, but it's on your head if I get kidnapped. And if I die, I'm haunting your ass. You won't get laid for a month."

I swear I hear Harper's eye roll over the phone. "Text me after you talk to this mystery man."

"Bye." I don't let her say anything else. I lower the phone and stare at Mystery Man. "So, what's your story? How exactly can you help me? And I have the Polícia Federal on speed dial, so don't try anything."