Bzzz.
Ignore.
Bzzz.
Ignore again.
Bzzz.
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble, reaching out to grab the phone from the nightstand.
Nate.
No, universe, please.
Nate:Answer, idiot.
Nate:Don’t play dead.
Nate:Julian and I want to talk to you. Right now. Urgent.
Nate:Like, immediately.
I roll my eyes.
I put the phone on my stomach, staring at the ceiling.
I have zero desire to see them.
Julian Heart the man who would probably kill me if he knew I kissed his daughter. Or that… I spent one wonderfully unforgettable night with her.
And Nate, my manager and best friend, who has the extraordinary ability to bust my balls with Olympic enthusiasm.
I finally reply to the text, just to get rid of them.
Me:I’m about to sleep.
Nate:False.
Me:Dead, then.
Nate:We want you downstairs in five minutes.
Nate:Don’t joke around. Julian is here.
Me:Ah, fantastic. The dream team.
Nate:You better move.
Me:…
I put the phone back on my chest and close my eyes.
Five minutes.
Five fucking minutes of peace.
Is that too much to ask?
