CHAPTER 8
Later that afternoon, I found myself dressing slower than usual—lingering in the mirror, trying to decide if I looked too obvious, too undone. I’d already changed twice. A black silk bodysuit with jeans? Too calculated. A sundress? Too soft. I didn’t want to look like I was thinking about him. Even though I was.
Even though I couldn’t stop.
The thing was, Duke hadn’t texted again. Not a good morning, not a smirking emoji, not even a goddamn “you up?”
He had me on pause.
And that pissed me off.
Belema called while I was lining my lips.
“Why do you sound like you’ve been pacing the walls?” she asked, yawning.
“I haven’t.”
“You lying to me or yourself?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not pressed.”
“No,” she said, her voice sharp now. “You’re obsessed. There’s a difference.”
“I’m
