So basically: high stakes. Just how you like it.
How would YOU know how I like it?
A hunch. You’ve got that edge.
You don’t know me.
Don’t need to. I know your type. Probably talks back in meetings.
…accurate.
You like the pressure. You chase the win.
P.S. It’s my favorite type
And what type is that exactly?
Girls who scare me a little.
Like the girl who hates you?
Exactly like the girl who hates me.
Any updates on that?
I don’t kiss and tell, TF.
CHAPTER 21
EGGS OVER EMOTIONAL
NOLAN
Syrup.Burnt toast. And enough caffeine to revive a dead man.
That’s Buzzy’s Diner.
Which is perfect, because I’m not dead—I just feel like it.
I slide into the booth across from Tammy, who’s already halfway through a stack of pancakes like she’s training for a carb-based Olympic event.
She’s wearing gold hoop earrings, a denim jacket over her office blouse, and an expression that says she’s about to reorganize my entire life with color-coded tabs and a smile that dares me to stop her.
“You’re late,” she says, spearing a piece of pancake without looking up.
“You ordered without me.”
“Because I know you. You’d have rolled in here, moaned about how you’re starving, then spent ten minutes fake-scanning the menu like you weren’t gonna order the same three things you always do.”
“Okay, rude—but also correct.”
“Glad I could validate your nonsense.”
I flag down the server, order my usual—black coffee, eggs over easy, bacon, whole wheat toast, and I add on a Belgian waffle.
“Ha! I orderedfourthings.” I settle back against the red vinyl booth. Tammy watches me for a beat, chewing slowly. Then she swallows, wipes her mouth, and gives me a look.
Shit. Here it comes.
