“Yes!” Jeremy points at the screen.
“No romance,” I add, holding up a finger. “No feelings. Just sin without names, numbers, and follow-ups.”
Jeremy nods. “Heat, poor judgment, and plausible deniability?”
I grin. “The holy trinity.”
Maya groans. “You two are actual demons.”
“And proud,” we say in unison.
CHAPTER 23
THE COCKTAIL WITH TEETH
NOLAN
Serious question, Carl: If you had to fight one animal in hand-to-hand combat, what would you choose?
Goldfish. No hesitation. I like to win.
I’d pick a goose. I want the glory.
I respect that. Goose fights are never one-on-one, though. That’s how they get you.
Okay, new question: Do you sleep with socks on?
Absolutely not. I’m not a psychopath.
Correct answer. You may proceed with digital friendship.
What’s your weirdest comfort habit?
When I’m stressed, I alphabetizemy spice rack.
That is deranged and also extremely hot. Mine’s eating cereal dry, with a spoon, like it’s a meal.
Anarchy. I approve.
The first sipof bourbon doesn’t do shit.
I swirl it in the glass, watch the amber catch the light, and try not to visibly flinch as Shelby Davidson sips her cotton candy cocktail like she invented brand disruption.
I shouldn’t be irritated. This meeting’s actually going better than expected. Civil. Efficient. Almost like we’re functioning adults.
Which is… progress.
Not that it makes her silence any less distracting.
I take another sip. I hate this. Not only the pageantry of it all, but the knowledge that the fate of Big Stream’s invite to theCross Island Pitchpocalypserests in the hands of a woman who once posed on a yacht with the caption:brunch is my cardio.
That’s Shelby Davidson for you.
She’s one of those young (too young for me), influencer types who builds a brand out of food photos, designer loungewear, and perfect candids.
Tonight is no exception.
She’s dressed like a walking Vogue shoot–sheer black silk blouse tucked into impossibly tight ivory trousers, her neckline stacked with layered gold chains and pointy earrings that could probably take out a drone.
