IF I COULD give an accurate snapshot of a man based on his drink, what did mine say about me?

I slid onto the barstool of some crummy bar a few blocks off the beach and ignored the way the bartender eyed me. “Give me a shot of the cheapest stuff you have on the shelf.”

The bartender gave me a funny look and took a second glance at my designer clutch, then my dime-sized diamond studs. I gave him a look even though he couldn’t see my eyes behind my sunglasses. “Glass,” I said, pointing at the tower of them behind him. “Bottle.” I waved my finger around the large jugs on the bottom shelf, guessing those were as cheap as cheap got. “Pour.” I mimed it for him. He still wasn’t moving. “Questions?”

Finally, muscled, shaved-head meathead with a shirt so tight I guessed it cut off the circulation to his brain chuckled. “You didn’t say the magic word.”

Did every man on the face of the planet have to be a total dickhead? In my line of work, you didn’t ask that question unless you wanted to find yourself on an impressive cocktail of anti-depressants.

“Please,” I said, giving him another Get a move on wave.

After he’d poured a shot from one of those giant-sized jugs, he dropped it in front of me. I slid a twenty out of my purse and gave it to him. “Thanks for the stellar service.”

He chuckled again, leaned into the counter, and looked like he was about to say something when my phone went off. I’d already destroyed the Client and Target phones, so only one person could be calling me.

I moved the phone to my ear and gave the bartender an expectant look. I waited until he’d moved on to another single girl on the opposite end of the bar before answering.

“No need for an actual verbal congratulations,” I said, wrapping my hand around the shot glass. “Your standard G reply says it all.” I’d texted G and Mrs. Silva the V for victory message a little earlier. Other than her usual G reply to confirm she’d received my text, I never heard from her. I never heard from her unless . . .

“You’ve got another Errand for me,” I stated, about to grimace before catching myself. “Need I remind you I just finished a big, fat Eight about thirty minutes ago? I think that’s earned me a day or, Lord have mercy, a weekend reprieve.” I was pressing my luck with G, but I was exhausted. Physically and mentally. We Eves generally got a few weeks off between each Errand for a reason. We needed time to rest and clear our heads before we walked into another one. After Mr. Silva’s particular breed of swine, I needed a long reprieve.

“This isn’t just another Errand.” G’s voice sounded almost . . . excited. G did excitement about as often as I did. Every other year. We penciled it into our calendars and everything. “This is the Errand.”

My heart stopped. “You convinced my spa girl to let us help?” If G was calling to tell me that, I was getting the Errand.

“Convinced? She didn’t need any convincing after I explained how we worked.”

“I’m getting the Errand?” I felt refreshed and ready to go at the very thought of landing that one. The payout would bolster my bank account enough so that, if I kept at it for another year or so, I could be out. Retired, fully funded, doing what I wanted, and answering to no one.

“From the Client’s description of her husband’s ideal woman, she could have been describing you the day I found you at that mall moping and alone.”

That memory made me flinch, but it passed quickly. “How much? What’s he worth?” I crossed my fingers, legs, and toes.

“It’s our Ten,” she said slowly. “It’s the one we’ve been waiting for.”

The air rushed out of my lungs. Scratch that whole year of work forecast. Successfully completing that Errand meant my personal freedom one second after texting G the V message. I could be in my own personal paradise, soaking up sun and scuba diving, in a month.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, incapable of anything else.

“Well put. So eloquent,” G replied. “Let’s hope you remember your manners and your class when you get to the Greet with Mr. Ten.”

“You tell me when and where, and I’ll be whatever that Ten needs me to be.”

“There’s the Eve I trained.” I could almost hear the hint of a smile in G’s voice. “I hope you don’t have big plans because the Client is about to board a plane as we speak. She was in Miami for another long weekend, but she’s got the file if you think you can make it to Miami International in under an hour.”

“I’ll be there.” I popped off of the stool and grabbed my clutch. “Text me exactly where I’m meeting her, and I’ll be there in forty-five.”

“I will. And good luck.”

My eyebrows came together. Had I heard her right? We Eves didn’t believe in luck; we created it. “I don’t need luck, G.”

G inhaled slowly on the other end. “For this one, you might. Now hurry up. There’s a reason I supply you with a fast car, you know.”

“Hurrying up,” I said, ending the call. I rushed toward the exit before I caught myself. Lunging back to the bar, I grabbed the shot, upended it, fought the cringe-shiver off, then slammed the glass upside-down on the counter. It was a habit I wished I could give up, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t not celebrate a victory with a cheap shot in a cheap bar. Maybe one day, but not this one.

Once I’d hurried out of the bar, I rushed to the 640. This kind of joint didn’t offer valet. I kicked off my heels when I slid into the seat, and the engine had barely turned over before I’d put the pedal to the metal. I flew down Ocean Drive, weaving in and out of cars and dodging pedestrians. When I sped past a familiar building with a long line outside its entrance, I put my arm outside the window and raised my middle finger into the air.

Farewell to The Pleasure Room and Mr. Daniel Silva. Hello, Mr. Ten.

Once I hit the Causeway, I set the 640 loose. Since it was late, traffic wasn’t much of an issue. I left the lights and glitter of South Beach behind me. It was something to miss, a place to mourn, but what I was heading toward made the goodbye easier.

I cruised into MIA twenty minutes later. I whipped into the closest parking spot I could find, and once I’d slid back into my heels and grabbed my clutch, I flat-out ran for the terminal. I still had on the red dress from earlier, and even though it was short, it was so tight it made running impossible. Once I’d jacked it up a few more inches, I could finally sprint. I turned more than a few heads, but now wasn’t the time to be concerned with appearances.

My phone pinged. Fumbling through my clutch, I pulled it out, checking the time first. Thirty minutes down. The women’s restroom just outside of security in the North terminal.

When I realized I was already in the right terminal for the Meet, I almost wondered if luck was shining down on me. I dismissed that idea before it could take root. Luck was a concept created by people too weak or afraid to take control of their lives or circumstances. At least that’s what G had drilled into me. I believed it.

Scanning the terminal, I caught sight of the little blue sign with a woman figure stenciled into it a few hundred feet down. I didn’t sprint the distance, but I power-walked. I wouldn’t get this close only to fail in the eleventh hour.

I took a moment to recompose myself before I shoved through the women’s restroom door. I smoothed my hair and dress before rolling my shoulders back and lifting my chin a touch. Confidence just a notch below arrogance. That was how we were instructed to come to the Meet.

The bathroom was quiet and appeared empty. Just before I cursed myself for being too late, a figure walked out of the end stall.

“Fancy seeing you again,” Mrs. Ten said, giving me a quick once-over before pulling a thick folder out of her carry-on. She was the first Client I’d had whose voice wasn’t shaky. “G said you were her best. I hope she’s right.”