Of course it was raining... not just raining, but an unholy, biblical, apocalyptic kind of downpour, like God Himself was slamming His hand down and saying, nope, nobody leaves this emotional disaster site until y’all figure out who’s kissing who and who’s finally shutting the hell up. I had barely set my suitcase down in the entrance hallway before the power flickered and someone yelled from the kitchen, “The Wi-Fi is dead!” which meant no escape, no signal, no i********: stories, and no way to check if Daphne’s diamond ring had made its third appearance on the Daily Mail’s homepage. I was trapped. I was trapped and I had not just one, not just two, but three emotionally unstable men and a karaoke-mic-wielding socialite bearing croissants and vodka for moral support...
This was supposed
