“Must be nice,” I murmur. “Getting a second chance like that.”
He looks at me then, really looks, and it feels like he’s weighing his next words. Then, just as quickly, his grin returns. “Don’t tell him I said any of that,” he says, voice light again. “He’ll call a family meeting to make sure I haven’t been body-snatched.”
I smile despite myself. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
That trademark smirk slides back into place. “I trust you, Mads.”
I roll my eyes, trying not to show how much my pulse has picked up. But it’s useless. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
It gets worse.
Somehow, Jesse Winters—walking smirk, workplace menace, and the human equivalent of a complication— managed to get me to say yes.
I don’t even know how it happened. One second, I was telling him absolutely not, that there was no world in which I’d show up at my parents’ pretentious gala with him on my arm, and the next he was smiling at me like I’d already caved. Which, apparently, I did.
I blame my momentary weakness on a poorly timed text from my mother, a guilt-laden reminder that I would be practically ruining the family name if I didn’t show up. “This is an important event for your father, Madeline. He’s worked very hard for this, and he will be so disappointed if his own children refuse to support him. I understand you are focused on yourself at the moment, but I really don’t think a weekend is too much to ask.”
Now I’m standing in my bedroom, a half-packed suitcase on the bed, wondering if this is what defeat feels like.
Shoes? Check. Dress that says,I’m thriving, Mother? Double check. Sanity? Debatable.
Lottie wanders in without knocking, as always, wearing one of my oversized sweatshirts and carrying a bowl of popcorn like we’re about to binge something on Netflix instead of spiral about my life choices. She flops onto the bed, narrowly missing the garment bag I just spent ten minutes carefully arranging.
“So,” she says, popping a kernel into her mouth. “Tell me again how Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Probably-Trouble talked you into this?”
I groan, tugging the zipper closed on my toiletry bag. “He didn’t exactly talk me into it. He just wore me down.”
Lottie grins. “Which is code for he flirted, and you blacked out.”
“Incorrect.” I shoot her a look. “Mostly. I blame his relentlesspersistence and that stupid grin that seems to make my brain short-circuit.”
She sits up. “Oh my God, you really do like him.”
“I do not like him.” I point at her with a hairbrush for emphasis. “He’s my boss.”
“Your boss who calls you Mads,” she points out.
I glare. That’s another thing. Not even my sister calls me Mads. Until now.
“He’s just trying to annoy me. He takes pleasure in torturing me.”
“Right,” Lottie says, lying back again. “And when he first called you Mads you didn’t tell him to stick to Madeline because…why was it, again?”
She bats her eyes innocently at me and I glare at her in response, hating that she has a point. “Lottie, the man drives me insane. He flirts like it’s a full-time job. Witheveryone. I’m not special. And now I’m going to have to spend an entire weekend pretending that we don’t argue about everything under the sun. And the cherry on top? My parents will be there too.”
She grins around another mouthful of popcorn. “Sounds like fun.”
“Sounds like a nightmare,” I mutter, though my pulse betrays me, picking up at the thought of his grin, the way his voice dips low when he’s teasing me.
I grab the dress from its hanger — glacier blue silk— and hold it up to the light. “This is professional,” I tell Lottie, mostly to convince myself. She nods enthusiastically. “Anyways, I just need to think about this strategically. Showing up with Jesse means less pressure from my parents.”
Lottie snorts. “Sure,Mads. And it’s totally irrelevant that your fake date is super hot. That’s why you’ve spent the past hour freaking out over what to pack, because this weekend is sostrategicandprofessional.”
I toss a pillow in her direction, but she catches it before it can hit its intended target. “You drive me insane.”
“And you love me.”
“Barely.”
