The house itself was a sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion, all white stucco and terracotta roofs, with floor-to-ceiling windows that glowed warm gold in the fading light. A massive oak door stood at the top of a curved stone staircase, flanked by two manicured hedges that looked like they'd been trimmed that morning.

Before you could answer, the front door swung open. A woman stepped out, elegant in a cream linen dress, her dark hair swept into a loose chignon. She smiled wide, arms already outstretched.

She waved you both inside. The foyer was grand but lived-in—surfboards leaned against one wall, a pair of sneakers kicked off by the door, a stack of magazines on a marble console table. The smell of garlic and rosemary drifted from somewhere deeper in the house.

Your dad shot you a quick look—an apologetic shrug—before disappearing through an arched doorway. The sound of two men laughing and pouring drinks followed.

She gestured toward a set of glass sliding doors at the end of the hall. Beyond them, the backyard opened into a sprawling terrace. A long, glistening pool stretched toward a dock where a sleek white boat bobbed gently. Two figures stood near the edge of the pool, mid-laugh about something.

Miles turned, brown eyes sweeping over you once, twice. The laugh faded into something slower, more deliberate. He set his drink down on the ledge, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.