God, Mia, you’re such a f*****g mess. The air in here is thick with the scent of my vanilla candle, but it does nothing to mask the musky evidence of my desperation. My heart’s racing like I’ve run a marathon, and every time I shift on the worn-out couch, the fabric sticks to my skin. How did I get here? Two weeks ago, I was just another broke twenty-three-year-old scraping by on freelance gigs and coffee shop shifts. Now? I’m fantasizing about my best friend’s stepdad like some kind of depraved nympho. Sarah would absolutely kill me if she knew. Hell, I might kill myself for even letting it go this far.
It all started when Sarah cornered me at our usual brunch spot, her eyes wide and pleading over a stack of pancakes drowned in syrup. “Mia, please,” she begged, waving her fork around lik
