I flinch.
Right. Present. Breathing. Allegedly functioning.
Apparently, I’ve been frozen for a few full minutes, my brain short-circuiting like a computer from 2004 trying to run a 4K livestream.
“Sorry, Jas, what did you say?”
“My subletter, buttercup! You know, the terrifyingly hot man I rented my place to while I’m getting my back blown out in Milan? Ring any bells, or did you drink yourself into actual amnesia?”
Oh God.I drag in the slowest breath known to mankind, except it snags halfway and abandons me for dead.
“Jas,” I whisper, practically under my desk now, “you never told me you sublet your apartment.”
“Because I didn’t think my emergency contact would BREAK INTO IT, honey lamb! What were you thinking?”
I can practically hear him pacing around whatever Italian sex palace he’s currently inhabiting, probably wearing nothing but a silk robe and his outrage.
“I thought it was still your place! I used the key! The FBI sticker key!”
“Which I told you about for EMERGENCIES, not for your post-breakup karaoke therapy sessions!”
There’s a beat. Then Jasper’s voice softens. Just a little.
“And for the record, I told you a thousand times: Evan was a limp-dicked parasite with the emotional range of a soggy paper towel. You deserve way better than that loser.”
I let out a strangled laugh that sounds more like a cough.
Better. As if men likethatactually exist for women like me.
Evan was the only guy who ever stuck around. The only one who didn’t swipe left on my hips or ghost me after two dates. So yeah, he was a self-absorbed man-child who once bought me gas station roses and called it romance—but at least hewantedme. For a while.
That has to count for something… right?
This is a nightmare. This is actually happening.
I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the screen when it buzzes with a text. Grandma. My heart stops.
GramCracker: Morning, sweetie. Feeling dizzy again. Dr. says the vertigo is getting worse.
Shit. Grandma’s been dealing with Ménière’s disease for months now, and the episodes are getting more frequent. The ringing in her ears, the balance issues, the nausea that leaves her bedridden for days. She’s trying to be brave about it, but I can hear the fear in her voice when she calls.
“Jas, who is he? Your subletter?”
“Someone very private, very wealthy, and apparently very understanding about drunk women invading his space. Oh God, Mary, please tell me you didn’t do anything weird.”
I close my eyes, remembering exactly how weird I got. I peek around my monitor to check if anyone’s watching me conduct a full conversation from under my desk.
“Define weird.”
“MARY.”
I duck lower, practically kissing my keyboard. “Nothing, I didn’t… do anything,” I whisper so quietly I’m basically mouthing the words.
Lying. I’m completely lying. But I can’t tell my best friend I sexually assaulted his mysterious tenant.
“Why do you have a subletter?” I try to change the topic, texting Grandma back quickly.
Me: On my way after work. Don’t move around too much. Love you.
