I should’ve known something was wrong when my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. I was still half tangled in Jack’s jacket, my face pressed into a couch cushion that definitely wasn’t mine, my legs dangling off the side of what I vaguely remembered being Maeve’s guest penthouse in Tribeca. My brain was foggy, sore in that particular way that only comes after rich people chaos and a night of accidentally drinking mezcal from a Fabergé egg. I couldn’t feel my earlobes. I couldn’t find my left shoe. My tongue tasted like gold leaf and betrayal.
And then I heard Jack groan beside me like a man who’d survived a minor plane crash, his voice groggy and sin-drenched.
“You should check your phone…”
I blinked, sat up, my lashes sticking together from whatever stupid expensive mascara Maeve’s stylist ha
