The backyard was an oasis: fairy lights strung over a saltwater pool, the air thick with night-blooming jasmine. And on a chaise lounge, half in shadow, sat a woman who looked like she’d just stepped out of a Tom Ford ad.

“Leo.” He set the box on the glass table. “That’ll be forty-two fifty.”

“I should get back,” he said, but his feet didn’t move.

Leo froze. “Sorry, ma’am. Traffic on the 405.”