Rhysand
Thorne Clarkson stood before us looking every bit as cocky as I remembered him, dressed in a flamboyant Armani blue suit, a white dress shirt, and a hat of the same color. He looked like a miniature version of his father, though a less smart and more watered-down version.
"Is now a good time?" he asked with a cocky smile, his eyes fluttering between me and Bridget before resting on our joined hands. "I don't want to interrupt anything. I can always come back."
I scowled, my lips parted, ready to tell him to f**k off, when Bridgette snatched her arm away from my grip, her tone steady.
"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Thorne," she said with a professional smile. "There's nothing more important than speaking with you. To what do we owe the honor?"
"Is that so?" Thorne drawled, his eyes
