The night had been a living hell. Sleeping on the ground when feline was tolerable, but as a human? Her hips were sore and her butt felt numb. Though the summer weather made the days tolerable, nights in Montana were chilly at best. Dean, to her chagrin, seemed to sleep like a baby while she tossed and turned in a sleeping bag not fit for a child. And then she’d had to take care of business in the woods. There was no water to drink or wash with but what she carried, and the stench of their makeshift fire had carried into her clothing. She wanted to run screaming to her hairdresser, but she’d left that life behind weeks ago. A normal Saturday morning in Miami consisted of a nonfat latte and plans for the evening—as in, which man would be lucky enough to be her date to whatever boring nightclub she’d agreed to attend—and design time. Stacey liked to use her Saturdays to sketch new clothes and think outside the box. Her fun, creative spans gave her some ease from the stresses of running the business side of things that Miles didn’t manage from Monday through Friday.
