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I went to blow up the photo and accidentally liked it.

Goddamn it.

I moved on to the next picture of her in a long dress and a hat similar to the one she’d worn to the beach, and I realized I hadn’t seen this photograph.

I’d followed her Instagram on the plane ride to Miami, but work had been keeping me so busy the last week that I guessed I hadn’t spent much time checking out her account.

I had the time now.

There were photos of her with friends, but most were solo shots. There were ones of her in a bikini at the beach, posing in dresses with sunsets in the background, at clubs and restaurants. My favorites were the ones where she was cozy in her apartment, the faraway look in her eyes telling me she was fantasizing.

About me.

No wonder I hadn’t checked her account before. It was dangerous as hell.

Just as fucking dangerous as it was to text her, yet I found myself pulling up the last message we’d exchanged, my thumbs hitting the keys.

Me: You’re so fucking hot.

Jo: Sounds like someo