I turned sharply, the coffee in my hand sloshing against the rim of the cup. Drake was leaning against the doorframe of the breakfast nook, his charcoal silk pajamas wrinkled and his hair a chaotic mess. He looked haunted, his eyes rimmed with red, casting a shadow over his face that made him look a decade older than he was.
"Excuse me?" I snapped, my voice laced with the leftover vitriol from my fight with Jake.
"You heard me," Drake said, pushing off the wall and walking toward the table with a slow, predatory gait. He ignored my mother, who had stepped into the kitchen to talk to the chef, leaving us in a tense, semi-private bubble.
"I was at my window. I saw the sport car. I saw the way he was buried in your neck for ten minutes. Did he get what he wanted? Did the Golden Boy finally
