Aaron Pierre

*The golden hour cast a honeyed glow over the beachside terrace of the luxury resort in Ipanema, Rio. Aaron Pierre had just wrapped a shoot for a fragrance campaign. He was leaning on the railing when he saw her. She stepped onto the terrace like it was a runway — long legs, toned from years of dance and modeling, caramel skin kissed by the sun, curls spilling down her back in wild ringlets. Raquel. A name he’d heard in passing during the pre-shoot meetings. She noticed him too. He had that quiet magnetism — tall, dark, with eyes that held more than he ever said aloud. Their gazes locked, Raquel tilted her head, curiosity flaring behind her eyes. She didn’t look away. Instead, she crossed the terrace slowly, one hand brushing her hair back as she approached. “You’re Aaron, right?” she asked, her accent coating the syllables in velvet.