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“Everyone, okay?” Grandma turns around to check on us.

Mom nods and whispers, “We have to hurry, baby boy.”

I trip and fall to the ground. “Oww.”

Mom crouches to help me up. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

She pats my cheek. “We have to be quiet. They’ll catch us if they hear us.”

Understanding, I nod.

“I can hear the river. There’s a boat waiting for us.” Grandma looks happy. “We’re going to a safe place.”

“Where are we going,Vó?” I ask, hopeful to not to see those bad people again.

“America.”

My grandma, mom, and I were sponsored by my grandmother’s friend to enter the United States of America when I was six years old. When I was nine, my mom died, leaving me with Grandma Morena. She raised me and gave me a loving home, shielding me from the cruelty of the world. But I knew how dark it was. I felt the darkness grow inside me the moment those men shot my father. Though America was safer than the villages of Brazil, it carried its own corruption.

Freedom looked and felt different when you’d experienced the alternative.

In order to overcome the darkness, I stepped into it and familiarized myself with its unstable terrain. This was something I wouldn’t share with Grandma. She’d be disappointed in me.

I could never abandon Grandma Morena. Doing so would abandon my history—experiences that had formed me into a successful billionaire. Life was one contradiction with many faces. Being open to possibilities had allowed me to see those faces and push them aside to focus on a cutting-edge medication that could change the world soon.

Placing the tray of herb tubes on the marble counter, I met Grandma’s eyes. A subtle green that was a shade different from mine.

“I wouldn’t trade anything for your cooking,” I said.

That was the truth. She made the best traditional Brazilian dishes that were incomparable to any restaurant I knew.I’m so grateful for this woman.

“Sou muito grata por você, Vó.” I kissed her forehead. Our family spoke Portuguese, and I tried my best to not forget my native language.

Grandma loved it when I spoke to her that way.

With a happy gleam in her eyes, she placed a hand on my cheek. “You’ve gotten thinner. You working too much? Not eating healthy like I told you to? Is that girl not taking care of you?”

My eyebrows furrowed, unsure of who she was referring to. Yolanda glanced over, looking just as intrigued as Cara, who was ringing up a customer.

“What girl?” I hadn’t dated anyone since . . . that night.

“The red-haired girl who didn’t even say hi to me when I stopped by the hospital to visit you. You know, the one with the giant melons.”

I wasn’t sure how to react to my grandma’s reference to breasts.

She waved a dismissive hand. “Who dresses like that to work anyway? Those things were practically trying to escape the tight knit top. Maybe she gets patients by giving them heart attacks. They were probably fake like the ones on the celebrities.”

Laughter bubbled inside me at my grandma’s opinion of Julie Allen, my ex-girlfriend. My relationship with Julie had been nothing serious. It was short-lived and mostly sex-driven. Yes, she had gorgeous melons, which were real, though I wasn’t going to inform my grandma about that fact. I was a man who appreciated beauty. But physical attraction faded over time if nothing else was present.

Julie was a hot cardiologist, and she had moved on just as I had. Last I heard, she was dating a surgeon from Mass General Hospital.

My perspective on relationships changed when I encountered a woman who didn’t have giant melons, but was more captivating. I craved her like a starved animal. I dreamed about Kiera often. Dreams were the only places where things worked out beautifully between us. Our one-night stand didn’t end too well. It had happened spontaneously . . . and regrettably. I didn’t regret anything, but she did.

Kiera had darted out of my bed before I even woke. What did that do to a man’s ego?Fuck.I should stop wondering. It irritated me not knowing what I’d done wrong. I thought we had a fabulous evening. Apparently I pissed her off enough for her to dash off.

I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I wasn’t her type, and she wasn’t mine either. Perfection meant high-maintenance, and I had no time for demanding women.