In hindsight, I should’ve worn a better shirt. If I planned to make this gamble, if I meant to challenge Waverly to draw me tonight, I should’ve spruced myself up a bit first.
Instead I’m the same careworn bastard that I always am, with a faded shirt and in need of a shave—and now I can’t stop glancing at my own reflection in the dark office window, tugging at my collar as I fight wave after wave of unease.
It seemed like such a genius brainwave out there, to suggest this to Waverly. Seemed right.
Now I feel like a prize jackass. Why on earth would a sweet little thing like Waverly want to hang around after hours to draw me?
“Prick,” I mutter, dragging my attention away from the warped, ghoulish reflection in the window, back to the financial spreadsheets on my computer screen. Christ,
