Myra
Thorne’s jaw tightened, the neon orange of his parka seemingly glowing brighter as his face flushed a deeper shade of plum. Clearly he wasn’t used to being the butt of the joke in Mount Tabor. No, not Thorne. He was old money, from an aristocratic family with wealth and power.
But he still looked like an i***t. And acting like a first class a.sshole seemed to be coded in his genetics. His eyes fell on the bin of wilted Kale. He opened his mouth, likely to cite a municipal code about "unauthorized vegetable storage," but Agnes saved us.
"Jason! Get out of the light!" she barked, slamming a red three onto the table. "I can’t tell my jacks from my jokers."
Thorne huffed, a sharp, indignant sound, and retreated toward the door. He paused, squared his shoulders, and tried to recapture
