CHAPTER ONE
You see it all started a few nights ago in southern Florida.
I was sitting on a white sofa in a swanky modern beach house that is owned by an incredibly gorgeous dark-haired man who was reclining on a matching sofa opposite me. My brother-in-law, Cole, sat in a white chair between the couches.
When we arrived in this home an hour before, the homeowner, Stefano, offered us cocktails (“Sharkbites,” if you can believe it), and changed into a pair of black silk pajama pants and a black tank top. His hair is just about as black as his clothes, and he has the kind of tan skin that makes you wonder if he was born with it or if it’s a gift from the sun. He was barefooted, and I noticed that he was well pedicured. Something about him told me that his feet probably didn’t even stink.
