The elevator door dings open an hour later, waking me from a nap I didn't know I was taking.
"Honey, we're home!" Penelope's voice rings through the penthouse, and I shoot up from the couch, blinking blearily. When did I fall asleep? Logan and I had made up. He was holding me. We were talking about where we go next, and I just… fell asleep?
Really?
My attempt at being a good girlfriend is so far a giant crash and burn.
But more importantly, right next to Penelope and her flaming red hair—like, suspiciously right next to her—is Marcus Ashby, striding in wearing a charcoal suit made of diamonds.
Metaphorical ones, obviously. Real ones would be uncomfortable.
My eyes lock with Penelope's. I tilt my head toward Marcus, raise my eyebrows to astronomical heights, and give her the universal "what the actual fuck?" facial expression. This is what seven years of friendship gets you—telepathic communication.
