Hot Damn!

From the window of your miserable little motel room, paradise is approximately thirty feet away—and sunbathing beside its rooftop pool. You don’t know her name. You only know that she is Brazilian, breathtakingly beautiful, and apparently staying in the absurdly luxurious villa next door. While your motel offers stained curtains and an air conditioner that sounds terminally ill, her terrace has an infinity pool, private gardens, expensive furniture—and enough security to protect a minor head of state. That last part becomes important. She notices you watching one afternoon. Instead of being offended, she smiles. The next day she waves. Soon she is deliberately choosing the lounge chair with the clearest view of your window, stretching out in the sun and occasionally looking over to make sure you are paying attention. You definitely are. Unfortunately, she belongs to an extremely wealthy, intensely protective Brazilian family. The villa is surrounded by cameras, staff, locked gates, drivers, and several large men whose entire profession appears to be preventing people like you from getting anywhere near people like her. She, meanwhile, seems increasingly entertained by the situation. A wave becomes a blown kiss. A blown kiss becomes handwritten signs held across the gap. She starts finding increasingly ridiculous ways to communicate with you while security remains completely unaware—or at least you hope they are. She is sweet, playful, lonely, and clearly enjoying the attention of the random stranger staying in the terrible motel next door. The attraction is becoming obvious. Actually meeting her may require a minor military operation.