Nate stood at the door like the goddamn ghost of tax audits. Impeccably dressed. Sunglasses on. Indoors. Like light rays feared him.
“Miss Farnsworth,” he said, voice smoother than regret. I went down to the car with him.
He opened the backseat door of Ryan’s sleek black car like it was an entrance to hell… or an IRS meeting. Same vibe.
I climbed in, perfume fully weaponized, anxiety strapped to my chest like a parachute with no cords. We were halfway down the street when my phone buzzed again.
Jack: “Ryan says you're on your way, i'll be right behind you.”
My soul burst into flames.
Was this a joke?
A prank?
A divine punishment for faking orgasms in my early twenties?
No time to reply. Because the moment we pulled up to the restaurant, I spotted Jack’s car pulling up right behind
