August is rescuing me today. His words, not mine. 

I couldn’t be more nervous. And excited.

I’m meeting my fiancé for the first time.

My pen taps where I’ve scrawled a short to-do list. I’m laughably unprepared to run away with August. I haven’t packed. My shit is scattered everywhere. An unfolded pile of laundry sits beside the basket. He would scowl at my half-assed preparations. 

I can’t make it real, because if he doesn’t come, I will be crushed. 

I glance through the stained windows overlooking a road lined with industrial warehouses. Cars zoom toward the 580, snarling through early-morning traffic to San Francisco. I peer through a clean spot and observe the streets, heart jumping when someone strolls into sight—is that him? A man wearing a backpack rounds the corner, disappearing from view. 

Not him. I tear myself from my perch and stare at my phone’s blank screen. 

Ten minutes. 

He’ll be here. My cell will illuminate, and he’ll ask me to meet him outside.

A throat clears. “Today’s the day, huh?” 

I flinch at the sarcasm, facing a sallow-faced woman with a mug held to her laughing lips. 

“Supposed to be. Yeah.”

Marcia shakes her head, looking sorry for me. “He’s late?”

“No—not yet.” My hands tremble as I clear my overcrowded workspace. “On his way.”

She furrows her brows. “I see.”

Marcia’s the pragmatic type. I understand that. Hoping for a miracle is a waste of time when there’s rent to pay. We have real concerns. I can’t sit around and fantasize my next meal into reality. 

To Marcia, August is a distraction. A shining white knight. My last shot at a normal existence.

But he’s more than that. I’d be lost without him. 

I sigh. “You don’t think he’ll come, do you?” 

She shrugs, helpless. “I want him to. I do.”

“He is.” Standing, I move against my desk to allow Marcia through. “He’s coming.”

“’Course,” she says, nodding. 

All I hear is disdain. 

I fight the surge of horror as I face a wall of boxes. The clutter is the perfect metaphor for my life.

It’s fucked. 

A sea of obstacles blocks my passage no matter what my direction. I try, but I can’t do any better than this. I’m stuck in this junkyard. Staying here was a last resort. It was supposed to be six months—it’s been two years of living in this godforsaken place. Fifty tenants live in the warehouse—loft—whatever the hell Byron calls it.

“If he comes, I’ll get a kick out of his reaction.” Marcia’s lip curls with contempt. 

Everyone contributes to the mess. The warehouse is a series of interconnected tents, and crude living spaces join a maze of junk. A stack of old gaming magazines forms a path to the kitchen, which has no sprinklers or ventilation. Wires connecting power strip to power strip snake through the maze. 

My spot is on the second floor. Getting there requires a little finesse and a lot of courage. The staircase is a pile of wooden pallets. My bed is a foam air mattress spread over concrete. The only privacy is inside my tent. Even then, it’s a poor sound barrier for when Byron hosts art shows. My landlord charges a ten-dollar cover for acts that often involve fire. We have four extinguishers. People pack in here like sardines, and I pray that I won’t die. Months ago, a loft that wasn’t zoned for residential went up in flames. 

Marcia glances out the window. “I’ll watch for your beau.” 

“Thanks. I’m going downstairs. Need something?”

“No.”

My skin brushes exposed wire as I unplug the laptop. A nasty shock jolts into my arm. “Shit!”

Marcia winces in sympathy. “That outlet isn’t grounded.”

“Great. Another hazard.” Numbness spreads through my fingers before I yank away. “Add it to the list.”

She chews her lip, frowning. “Do you think we can get everyone to sign a list of demands?”

“I’ve never heard of a petition resolving anything. We don’t have rights. Technically, we’re what? Squatters?”

“Not sure.” Using a ruler, she switches off the power. “This is insane. I can’t work like this.”

I descend the pallet staircase and navigate to the only room that isn’t crammed with ancient furniture, pianos, discounted art, posters, and tents. The kitchen consists of a mini fridge, a table, and a hot skillet. 

I don’t use it. Without a sprinkler system, this place is a tinderbox. I eat salads and grit my teeth when someone fries an egg. 

I grab a pot filled with cold coffee and pour a cup. The bitterness curls my tongue, but I force it down. I haven’t slept.

It’ll be fine. He will show up. 

My pocket chimes. The noise jerks me awake faster than the caffeine. I set the mug aside, patting my jeans for the cell. There’s a missed call. The phone was on silent. I groan, changing the setting, and then I play the message. 

My heart stops when a familiar voice cracks through the speaker. “Lily, I’m here. I think. I’m wondering if I’ve been catfished. There’s no bell. Or sign. It looks like an abandoned warehouse. If you’re there, come out.”

A fist pounds the door. “Hello?”

He’s here.

He came.

“Lily? God, I’m wasting my time.” Another thump hits the barrier. “Damn it.”

I weave through the maze of crap, terrified he’ll leave. My feet run into something solid. I send a box of tools flying. Swearing, I open the door. Light floods my gaze. Blinding white bleaches my vision, eaten away by a man with a cell halfway to his mouth. 

His fierce features soften at the sight of me. “Lily.”

My name rolls from his tongue with the familiarity of an old lover. His accent is rich and dark, like decadent chocolate. My iPhone couldn’t have produced that sound. 

August extends his hand with a crooked smile. “Hey, I’m August.”

Oh my God, it’s him.

“Lily.” Rough calluses scrape my skin as I drink him in. “Great to meet you.”

He grins. “You took so long I thought you chickened out.”

“No. It’s just—it’s a little bit of a mess inside.”

Standing next to him is thrilling and strange. He’s here. It blows my mind.

August wears a blue blazer with fitted jeans. He’s taller than I imagined and broad-shouldered like a football player. A few days’ worth of stubble grows on his jaw. His black eyes seem to glitter with savage laughter. His face is one to be dominated by or feared, never pitied.

The headshot he shared doesn’t hold a candle to this real-life version. This is August, the man who heard me confess my deepest fears and most intimate fantasies. I gave him my favorite sex positions. 

My cheeks burn. “You’re here.”

His thumb strokes my palm. “Told you so.”

“I—I can’t believe it.”

“Need a pinch?” He grabs my waist. “Come here.”

I throw my arms around his neck, consumed by heat. His body is baking with it. He tightens his embrace. I’m crushed into his chest, but I don’t care. It’s the best feeling in the world.

I’m swept into his grasp. My pulse races as he touches my chin. I forget to breathe. 

He steps back with a sharp inhale. 

Behind him, two men in slacks stand like boulders next to a silver Lexus. “Hello.”

August follows my line of sight. “Don’t mind them.”

“Are they bodyguards?”

His grin becomes strained. “Yeah.”

I gape at him. “Who are you?”

“Let’s talk in private.” August releases me, muttering instructions to his guards in a foreign tongue. After a brief exchange, he waves them off. “No hay bronca.”

It’s Spanish. Like most Californians, I have a food-related understanding of the language. I can ask to hold the cilantro. I’ve listened to it often enough to recognize the slant of his words and the accent playing with his r’s. 

August said his home was “abroad.” I’d hoped it was Paris because visiting the Eiffel Tower is on my bucket list, but I won’t be walking the Champs Élysées anytime soon. He’s not European. I’d stake my life on it. 

Then where the hell is he from?

August wrenches the door open. Numb with shock, I move inside. He accompanies me through the cacophony of junk and mismatched furniture.

“Watch your head. It’s a little tight.” I wince at the horror blossoming on his face. “I know.”

“This isn’t safe.” 

“What gave it away?” 

“I never knew you lived in a place like this.” Wordlessly, he gapes at the mountains of tents, walkways, and hanging art. “What if there’s a fire? How would you escape?”

I sigh. “I try not to think about that.”

“Wow.”

We approach the pallet staircase. August takes one look at the shoddy construction and grips my arm. He steadies me as we climb, but I’m dizzy with excitement. 

He’s here. 

I lead him to my desk, pointing at the laptop. 

“This is where I work.” I gesture toward the mattress squeezed in the corner. “And live.”

“You can’t stay here. This is crazy. I’m amazed you’re alive.”

I grimace. “It could be worse, I guess.” 

He doesn’t return the smile. “Not by much.” 

I give him the chair, but he pushes me into the seat. I flush with pleasure as he squeezes my shoulders. Chivalrous to a fault. 

He notices his photograph. “Did I meet your expectations?”

“You exceeded them.” Damn, it’s hard meeting his gaze. “You’re very intimidating.” 

Watching him is a marvel. August owns whatever space he’s in. 

“I’m the same guy you talk to every day.”

Except ten thousand times more dreamy. “So…who are you?”

“August Espada,” he says, after a heavy silence. “All boys in my country serve four years in the military when they’re of age, but because of my father’s position as a general, I stayed longer. Until an injury disqualified me from further service.”

He looks as fit as a bull. “Where?”

“My foot.” He lifts his right leg. “It never healed. I’ve tried all kinds of steroid injections, but I still have tendonitis.”

“Oh, that sucks.”

He shrugs. “Now I do other things.”

“Like what?”

He bends over me, gripping the armrests. “I’ll tell you more when we leave.”

Too close. My heart does back flips. “Where?”

“To my hotel. I’ll get your bags. Where are they?”

“I—ah—was sorta in the middle of packing.”

August gives me a shrewd look. “Didn’t think I’d show?”

I laugh, grabbing clothes from a random pile and stuffing them into the duffel bag. “I will grab my stuff. You don’t have to wait here.”

“I’m staying.”

I pause. “What do you really want from me?”

His eyes smolder. “I can’t relax until you’re out of this deathtrap.”

Safety is a fantasy in my world. No jobs. No housing. Nothing in my future except a bleak question mark. 

Warmth envelops my fingers as he squeezes my trembling hands. “I’m not doing this to save you.”

“I know. You’ve said that—it’s hard for me to believe.”

“Lily, I’m marrying you. That’s why I flew halfway across the country.” 

Trust him. “Okay.”

His voice hardens. “Come.”