“Nathaniel,” she says breezily, like she’s greeting an old friend at a charity gala and not standing in my clothes after a night of extremely questionable decisions. “Always a pleasure seeing you on the brink of a nervous breakdown. It gives you such nice color.”
And then… nothing.
Because for me, thereisnothing.
She doesn’t look at me. Not once.
Her gaze slides past me like I’m an Ikea chair assembled incorrectly in the corner.
She walks by, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume and my own soap that hits me right in the caveman ego.
The front door opens.
Closes.
Click.
Three seconds pass.
Then Nate detonates.
“CHRIST, MAN! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
His voice ricochets off the tiles. I actually flinch. He scrubs his hands over his face, like he’s trying to shove his brain back into his skull.
“She’s the coach’s daughter, Cohen! The. Coach’s. Daughter.” Each word lands like he’s teaching me English for the first time.
“Thanks, genius,” I mutter, still staring at the spot where Sloane vanished. “Hadn’t noticed.”
Nate’s eyes bug out of his head.
He looks like he might cry or kill me. Possibly both.
“You have nothing—NOTHING—to say for yourself?” he shrieks, pitching up an octave. He starts pacing like a man awaiting execution. “Do you understand I’m OUT of miracles? OUT ofexcuses? If she talks, or if her father finds out—oh God, I can’t even think about it—”
He stops abruptly.
Chest heaving.
I say nothing.
What am I supposed to say?
It was worth it?
He’d stab me with a butter knife.
Why does the universe give me everything I want in the most catastrophic way possible?
Nate whirls toward Dominic, desperate for backup, but Dom has gone back to ignoring us, staring at the coffee maker like it’s more interesting than our imploding lives.
Nate lets out a long, shuddering breath.
But he’s not done.
He needs a new target.
And I’m apparently made of Teflon.
