Jazz tossed her shopping bags onto the couch with the flair of a woman who’d just conquered SoHo. “God, retail therapy is better than actual therapy. And cheaper. Well—” she glanced at the designer label peeking out of one of the bags, “—debatable.”
Sophia laughed softly, shaking her head as she toed off her shoes. The laughter felt good, like stretching sore muscles. “You’re ridiculous.”
“No, I’m fabulous,” Jazz corrected, plopping down with her phone. Her thumbs flew across the screen, then she gave a self-satisfied little smirk.
“What now?”
“I’ve got a dinner date.” Jazz sing-songed the words like a teenager announcing she’d won the lottery. “Cute, funny, works in finance but not boring about it. We matched last week, and he texted me an hour ago asking if I was free tonight. And I
