Four hours to plan a reality show… or four hours to test that kiss-proof lipstick?
Asking for a friend.”
Reply from Brenda T.:
“Martha, forget the car. My husband works at the stadium. He said Becker waswhistlingin the locker room.
WHISTLING.
That man has never whistled a day in his life. He’s gone. He’s done. Sloane must’ve put some kind of voodoo spell on him—or that lipstick has pheromones.”
Reply from Aunt Tina:
“It has Vitamin E and long-lasting pigments! ???
Link in bio to order!”
44
What a Massive Idiot
Sloane
There’s a very specific moment at night when rationality packs its bags and paranoia moves in.
For me, it hits right around 11:30 p.m.—the exact minute I’m lying on the couch with a clay mask cracking on my face, a glass of red wine in hand, and my phone lighting up the dark like a distress beacon.
I was trying not to think about Cohen.
Honestly.
I saw him today.
And God help me… he was even more gorgeous and infuriating than usual.
At least we had a productive workday. No interruptions.
And I was genuinely, aggressively committed to forgetting his stupid face. I even started reading a Scandinavian architecture essay to bore my brain to sleep.
But then my phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
A hundred times.
The WhatsApp group“Elm Hollow Spies”(admin: Francis Grande) had detonated.
Francis:?? RED ALERT.
Francis:Suspicious sighting. Becker’s Porsche just tore out of Voss’s driveway like the devil was chasing it.
Aunt Tina:At this hour? But the shops are closed! He can’t buy more lingerie!
Miss Lacey:Sweetheart, at this hour the only thing you buy is trouble. Oryou’re on your way to… create trouble.
Francis:Heading toward the state road. Toward The Velvet Room in Foxglove Hills.
