36
Emma
I don’t call my grandparents.
Not at 11:30, at least. It takes me several minutes to find my purse in Marcus’s huge bedroom—it was sneakily hanging on the back of the door—and when I finally fish out my phone, it’s already 11:37 a.m. and I have a worried text from Grandma.
I’m normally never late when it comes to our biweekly Skype sessions.
Ugh. Now I can’t not explain. If I just text back to reschedule, she’ll think something is seriously wrong.
Phone in hand, I look around. The bedroom is as gorgeous as the rest of the penthouse, and there’s a nook with a sleek lounge chair where I can Skype. But I really don’t feel comfortable talking to my grandparents next to the bed where Marcus f****d my brains out. Repeatedly. It’s bad enough I’ll be sitting in a borrowed robe.
Libr
