“Change conversations,” Sloane adds.
“Disappear,” Katelyn says.
Barbie finishes it, smiling sweetly.“Whatever you do, Jane—don’t let West Prescott get curious about you.”
They leave.
I stareat the closed door.
Isit in silence, staring at the folder.
I flip it open again, studying Blake's photo. The watch on his wrist could probably wipe out Grace’s tuition in a single transaction. His shirt is crisp. His haircut is precise.
I glance down at my chest and experimentally hoist everything up to see what 'pointing at him instead of the floor' even looks like.
Okay. I can see the cleavage appeal.
I set the girls down gently, back to their natural, economically-priced bra situation.
Clearly Blake Hartwell has never seen boobs that haven't been professionally assembled.
With a wry laugh, I close the folder and check my bank account. Negative. Overdraft fees, bounced payments, the kind of red that makes accountants break out in hives. I have $32 in cash. One maxed-out card. And a stack of envelopes marked URGENT.
Grace is the only family I have. Her tuition is due in less than a month. Campus housing right after.
She's twenty-two, brilliant and responsible. Still clawing her way through nursing school.
If she loses her spot, the last two years of scraping and saving and sacrificing are wasted.
She deserves better than a sister who can barely keep the lights on. She deserves a better future than meal-plan roulette and my sad attempts at budgeting.
Fifty grand means Grace gets to stay in school.
All I have to do is seduce a stranger.
I let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and the noise a balloon makes when you let all the air out.
This is, objectively, the dumbest work I’ve ever considered.
I've never successfully seduced anyone. But I’ve also neverun-successfullyseduced anyone. The sum of my sexual knowledge comes from romantic comedies and one extremely awkward health class in high school where the teacher used a banana to demonstrate condom application.
But I'm good at faking competence.
I’ve been faking it since I was nineteen, when Mom OD’d and I was suddenly the only adult in the room. Grace was a traumatized teenager. The mortgage was already threemonths behind. I had no idea what I was doing.
I quit college.
I faked my way into becoming Grace’s legal guardian. I faked my way into starting a business I had no qualifications to run. I faked confidence in hundreds of client meetings where I had no idea what I was doing but refused to let anyone see me sweat.I can fake this.
I have to fake this.
I pull out my phone and open a new note, titling itOperation Honeypotbecause if I'm going to do this, I might as well commit to the theme.
Step 1: Don't get arrested.
Step 2: Don’t fall for the target. (He’s a cheater. This should be the easiest step.)
Step 3: Get proof.
