Page 110 of Titus
“I’ll give it to you, man. She is striking,” Wyatt said beside me, entirely too amused. “And you’re completely fucked.”
“Thank you for that insightful contribution.”
“You moved a bazillion-dollar yacht across the planet for her, jackass,” Wyatt continued. “The game is over for you, hermano. You’re positively fucked.”
“I did not move the yacht for her.”
Every man around me looked unconvinced.
“Sure,” Jake nodded. “Why else would you relocate that beast from Monaco to Southern California during the peak of hunting season for you CEOs?”
Before I could respond, I noticed Cat’s smile suddenly disappear, and immediately, my attention sharpened.
She stepped away from the women, reaching into her purse before glancing down at her phone.
Shit. Was something wrong with her sister?
The relaxed warmth vanished from her face as tension replaced it. Not dramatic panic. Worse. Controlled stress. The kind that women like Catalina carried quietly while pretending everything was manageable.
Without even realizing it, I’d already stood up from my chair.
“Titus?” Wyatt called after me.
I ignored him completely.
Cat looked up as I approached her near the edge of the terrace overlooking the ocean.
“Everything alright?” I asked quietly.
She exhaled softly, then offered me a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Work issue.”
“What kind of work issue?”
“One of the luxury floral installations for tomorrow’s event apparently never arrived from San Francisco, and now everyone’s panicking because the client is convinced the entire event is ruined.” She rubbed her forehead lightly. “I should’ve been with them. Damn it.”
I stared at her for half a second. “Get your purse.”
She blinked once. “What?”
“Get your purse, Catalina.”
A small laugh escaped her. “Titus, you don’t have to—”
“I know.” My eyes held hers calmly. “I want to.”
Something in her expression softened.
And right then, standing there beneath the glow of the terrace lights, the ocean crashing below us, I realized there was almost nothing I wouldn’t do for this woman anymore.
The elevator doors opened directly into my penthouse suite at Horizon just after midnight. Catalina stepped out beside me, looking equally exhausted and beautiful after the chaos of San Francisco.
The floral disaster had somehow turned into three vendors, two emergency meetings, one screaming socialite, and a last-minute redesign in a warehouse near the bay. And Catalina? She handled it all like she’d been born for pressure.
I watched her kick off her heels near the entryway, then rub the back of her neck.
“Tired?” I asked.
