ZANDER
I step out of the CWP building, unable to stop the corners of my mouth from curling upward when I see the rain pouring outside. It is a welcome relief from the suffocating heat of the past few months.
The rain is turning the dusty pavement into mud, some of it splashing onto my shoes as I stand just below the rain gutter. I open my phone, planning to book a taxi when someone steps into my personal space.
I look at him and frown. He smiles and tilts his chin up to the umbrella that he suddenly shares with me.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say, stepping back. He somehow looks familiar. Tall and handsome, too. He could easily be one of CWP’s artists.
“Need a ride? I’m just waiting for my car,” he offers.
“No. I already booked a taxi.”
“Okay then. Oh, my ride’s here.” He takes my hand an
