Chicago, thank God we’re here.

We’re alive and breathing and no one’s been punched, in case you were concerned.

So at 3:00 a.m. in our hotel room, Farrow got a call. Spoiler Alert: it’s not a bad one this time. Akara invited him to the hotel bar for drinks. All the bodyguards are there, off-duty, while my cousins are safe asleep.

As soon as Farrow hung up, he turned to me and said, “You’re coming along, wolf scout.”

I was already wide-awake. Sending out work emails and trying not to think about tomorrow’s meet-and-greet. And I wasn’t about to reject a rare offer to hang out with Security Force Omega.

Farrow and I—we’re still in the early stages of our relationship. I’m pretty damn sure. Like 70%. If we’re basing the “stages” on time, then I’m confidently 99%. Because we haven’t reached a six-month mark yet and that seems like a solid relationship number.

I think. Because if we calculate hours spent together, our number is ridiculously high—stop thinking.

Obviously I don’t know how any of this works. There’s no playbook for dating your bodyguard. If there was, I’d own about a million goddamn copies. But I still want all of his friends to treat me like a regular guy and not just Maximoff Hale the Celebrity Client.

I’m not even positive that’s an achievable goal. Maybe it’s something completely out-of-this-world impossible and I’m shooting beyond the stars.

But I gotta try.

I zip up my green jacket. “So which one is your best friend?” I ask Farrow as we ditch the elevator and jog down a flight of hotel stairs. Anything to move around a bit. The cavernous cement stairwell is also empty, no strangers lurking.

Farrow is step-for-step in line with me. Descending the stairs swiftly, he fixes his earpiece and says, “None of them.”

“Bullshit,” I retort, “they’re definitely your best friends.”

Farrow tosses his head from side-to-side, considering. “No.”

I make a face.

He puts a piece of gum in his mouth. “They’re all aggravating on any given day.”

“What are you, allergic to friendship?”

He rolls his eyes into a smile. “Allergic to friendship,” he repeats, chewing his gum. “I don’t enjoy owing people anything, and having ‘best friends’ is a commitment that I’m not actively signing up for.”

“I get it,” I say. “You don’t like anyone tying you down—”

“One person can tie me down,” he cuts me off and then glances at me. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.” I sort of was. I unhinge my jaw, ridding whatever expression is causing him to overflow with satisfaction.

His grin has landed in James Franco territory. “I didn’t say that person was you.”

I blink. “You ever hear of that annoying six-foot-three guy with bleach-white hair who died in a Chicago stairwell?”

He laughs. “You mean the guy you have a hard-on for.”

“No, the other one,” I say dryly, and when I jump a couple stairs, he easily keeps pace. “So which one do you hate the least then?”

“Like I said, they’re all aggravating.”

I sigh heavily and stretch my arms while we descend the stairs. “Give me some slack here, man. It’s not like you needed cliff notes when you met Jane. You practically already had the Jane Cobalt Encyclopedia.”

His expression softens. “Okay. Cliff notes. I grew up in the same neighborhood as Akara, but we never talked, not even in high school. Different social circles. That shit.” We pass the fifth floor doors, and he adds, “I met Oscar at Yale. Donnelly, I met him a little before I went to college. Then he followed me, and he’d crash in my dorm, my apartment—he’s like an infection you can’t rid.”

“An infection that did some of your tattoos,” I say.

Farrow glances at me, more serious. “No, he did most of my tattoos. I met him when he was an apprentice, but he can draw and I liked his style. He became really good.”

Huh. “What’s most?”

“I’d say about eighty-five percent is Paul Donnelly.”

I stop on the third floor, and he follows suit, leaning casually on the railing. My eyes graze the crossed swords on his throat, wings on his neck. I’m not an expert on tattoos, but I always considered Farrow’s ink nothing short of breathtaking and fucking gorgeous.

“So let me try to understand,” I say. “You’ve known Donnelly for almost ten years, you let him tattoo you, crash at your place, you probably introduced him to security work, and you still don’t consider him your best friend. In fact, you refer to him as an infection.”

His lips rise. “If you knew him better, you’d realize he’d take that as a compliment.”

“I’m being serious.”

Farrow shrugs. “It’s not like you and Jane. You two are best friends. See, what I have is a group of guys that I sometimes get along with. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes we hang out. Sometimes we don’t.” He smiles off my confusion. “It’s not that complicated, wolf scout. That’s how I like it.”

* * *

A bulbed Chicago sign backlights the small hotel bar and array of liquor bottles. But no bartender mans the counter. Blue and red Chicago Cubs posters decorate wooden walls, and all the rustic high-top tables are vacant except one.

The five bodyguards instantly spot us—and their talk pretty much vanishes. I’m aware that Thatcher, Akara, Oscar, Quinn and Donnelly are eyeing me, not Farrow.

Jesus.

I’m starting to think I’ve been cursed with a superpower that causes verbal paralysis.

“Hey,” I say confidently, and most of them reply, “Hey, man.”

Akara slides another wooden stool next to the only unoccupied one. I figured they had no clue I’d be joining Farrow. So I’m not as shocked as they are.

“Look who showed up,” Oscar says to Farrow.

“Not for you, Oliveira.”

Oscar cracks a smile, and Farrow and I take a seat on the two open stools. He rubs my thigh, almost to say, don’t overthink.

Good idea. I hadn’t thought of that one before.

My palm brushes his hand, and I end up resting an elbow on the circular table. My attempt at not sitting like I’m about to run an Ironman Triathlon.

Battery candles, dice, nuts, liquor bottles and whiskey glasses scatter the wooden surface.

Donnelly doles out three dice to everyone, a cigarette burning between his fingers. “Maximoff would know…” he trails off at a no-nonsense look from Akara.

Oscar mimes slicing his neck. I’m guessing he’s saying, don’t go there. But I can’t be sure.

“Talk about something else,” Thatcher says, voice stern.

I’m guessing they’re censoring themselves around me. I’ve been with bodyguards off-duty plenty of times before—like the Hallow Friends Eve and even just on the tour bus—but they try not to dig for secrets and they dodge certain topics about my family.

Farrow splays his earpiece wire over his shoulder. “Which one of you fuckers scared the bartender off?”

“Bar and kitchen closed five minutes ago,” Akara says while texting and then he pockets his phone.

Quinn swishes a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Bought it before the bartender left.”

I’m still super-glued to the Maximoff would know comment. “Donnelly,” I say, all eyes on me. “You can ask me. It’s alright if it’s about my family.” I already know how the world perceives the Hales, Meadows and Cobalts, and security can’t view us worse than strangers who are fed tabloid lies.

Donnelly blows smoke into the air, and the bodyguards exchange cagey glances that I can’t fucking read. They must come to a verdict because he speaks and no one stops him. “Heard about Eliot and been discussing whether it’s real or rumor. Figured you’d know.”

I know about that incident thanks to a hundred texts at midnight, and Luna, Eliot, and Tom FaceTimed me together. “What’d you guys hear?”

Oscar cracks a peanut and pops it in his mouth. “I heard he got a week suspension.”

“For messing with some guy’s Porsche,” Quinn chimes in and pours whiskey in an empty glass.

Donnelly sticks his cigarette in his mouth and mumbles, “If someone fucked with my Porsche, I’d have him by the nuts.”

Farrow chews his gum with a growing smile. “You know we’ve left reality when Donnelly thinks he has a Porsche.”

Everyone laughs, including me, and the mood lightens, Omega starting to relax around me.

Donnelly nods to me. “Real or rumor?”

“Real,” I say. “You hear what he did to the Porsche?” Farrow knows. I already told him.

“Nah, no one’s said yet.”

I think about how this won’t ever reach the public. You’ll never hear about Eliot’s suspension thanks to the Cobalt’s lawyers, but I’m betting security will find out tomorrow morning.

And SFO is about to find out by me tonight.

“In red paint,” I tell them, “he wrote ‘the most unkindest cut of all’ on the windshield.” I shake my head a few times, conflicted. I wish I could defend my eighteen-year-old cousin, but he vandalized another guy’s car. Eliot is a Cobalt, innately passionate. I swear he can never do anything half-heartedly.

“What the hell does that even mean?” Quinn asks. “The most unkindest…what?”

“Should’ve gone to college, little bro.” Oscar throws back a whiskey shot.

Quinn scowls. “Maximoff didn’t go to college—”

“He’s a billionaire. He didn’t need to go to college.” Oscar outstretches his arm. “If you quit boxing, you should’ve gotten a degree, not followed me into securi—”

“Guys, be cool,” Akara interjects. This isn’t the first time the Oliveira brothers have argued on tour. At least they never get physical like Charlie and me.

Quinn clenches his jaw and screws the cap on the whiskey bottle.

“It’s a quote from Julius Caesar,” I explain. “You know Tom was with Eliot?”

Donnelly smirks. “My Cobalt children, slayin’ together.”

Thatcher shakes his head. “Let’s not advocate vandalism, especially among the teenagers.”

“Advocado-what?” Donnelly pretends to be dumb.

I laugh with some of them, and Farrow eyes me a bit, his smile stretching.

“How’d Tom get out of trouble?” Akara asks me.

“Eliot just took all the blame for them.” I pause, their heads turning to the entrance. Vigilant as a middle-aged woman peeks in the bar and pops out. I hear her tell a friend that it looks empty in there, and their footsteps fade away.

Not spotted. For once.

Their attention fixing on me again, I finish, “The whole thing was Eliot’s idea anyway.”

Oscar digs through the peanut shells. “Why’d they do it?”

I decide to be vague, the whole truth too personal. “The guy was messing with my sister.”

Luna clued Tom and Eliot in on the pregnancy scare, and they said the guy she slept with was spending his holiday break telling his friends that Luna Hale is a slut.

I wish I could’ve teleported to Philly.

So I could do something. Be there for her. I don’t know if she told our mom and dad yet. And I honestly can’t tell you what I would’ve done if I were the same age as Luna, in school at the same time—would I’ve reacted similar or worse than Eliot? I don’t know.

The bodyguards nod. Not pressing for more details. I bet they can sense when I’m being reserved.

Quinn slides a newly filled glass to Farrow, but Thatcher steals the drink midway across the table.

Farrow rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t going to drink it, Mom.” He slides off the stool and walks backwards to the empty bar. “What do you want, wolf scout?”

I think about how that’s stealing—fuck, he can totally tell I’m considering all the rules. His smile widens, and I swear “so pure” is on the edge of his tongue.

I lick my lips. “I’m good.”

He chews slowly. “Even if I leave cash behind?”

“I can get it—”

“I’m already here.” He’s behind the bar and opens the fridge below the counter. “Water?” he asks me.

I take out my wallet. “Yeah.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He’s buying me a drink. A bottled water since I don’t drink alcohol, but still, my boyfriend is buying me a drink. I thought I’d make that move first and buy him one.

I’m kind of shocked, and I wonder if the bodyguards can tell this is new for me or a first or the fact that it means something. Because it does. These little things mean more to me than I ever thought possible.

I never even dreamed about falling in love until I fell in love with him.

As I face the table, Quinn asks Akara, “Why can’t Farrow drink? I thought we’re off-duty…oh, damn, right.” He glances at me.

I get it. Since I’m not safely tucked into bed, Farrow is at work. On-duty. But if he wanted to drink, he wouldn’t have invited me here.

I unzip my jacket, getting hot.

Oscar leans back on the stool and calls out, “I’ll take a Corona, Redford.”

“Nice choice, get it yourself.”

Donnelly joins in, “Make me a bloody one.”

Oscar says, “Changed my mind, I’ll take a Blue Moon with an orange slice.”

“Still don’t care.” Farrow shuts the fridge and raises his brows at me like what’d I tell you about them? Truthfully, it seems like they’re his closest friends.

He returns with a bottled water and Lightning Bolt! energy drink. “What are we playing?” Farrow positions his stool nearer to mine before he sits down. His thigh right up against my thigh.

My hand slides on his knee, and I grab my water with the other.

Our eyes lock for a second. I wish I could sling my arm around his shoulders. But I can’t.

We can’t.

We’re in a public setting, and a stranger isn’t catching us at 3-something-a.m. in Chicago.

“Liar’s dice,” Thatcher says and gently sips his whiskey.

“How do you play?” I ask.

Oscar explains the rules. It sounds simple. Every round 1 person loses a dice, and you’re out of the game when you have no dice in your hand.

The crux of the game: when you lose a dice, you have to choose a truth or dare. They already wrote a bunch of truths and dares on shreds of napkins. All of which are randomly mixed together in Akara’s baseball hat.

Stakes seem higher for me than for them, but I trust SFO. So I’m game.

“Hey, everyone.” Akara drums his fingers on his whiskey glass. “Maximoff should be able to skip any dares or truths that he wants—”

“No,” I cut in. I was afraid of being too domineering again, too stiff and stringent and they’d treat me more like their employer, but I can’t be passive here. “I can play the game like you guys.”

Akara shifts on his stool. “You sure? You can skip anything I wrote down. You should, really. I didn’t think you’d be here.”

Oscar hooks an arm around the co-Omega lead’s shoulders. “Akara strongly suggests and recommends it.”

Alright, they all have some sort of knowledge that I don’t, and before I even ask Farrow, he pops his gum and says, “Kitsuwon plays dirty.”

And by dirty, he means sex questions. Got it.

Akara holds my gaze. “I would’ve gone easier with the truths for you.”

I can’t expect these guys to treat me like I’m one of them if I need half the truths and dares removed. I said I wanted all-in on Farrow’s world, and I’m going all-fucking-in.

So I say, “I’m glad you didn’t know I’d be here then.”

Akara smiles and raises his glass in cheers, and the first round of the game starts. Dice hits the table, we make bets, and Thatcher loses one dice first.

“Oohh,” the table erupts.

Thatcher takes the hat, not saying a damn thing. Being around him on tour, I’ve noticed that if he’s not discussing work, he’s quiet. Brooding. He unfurls the shred of napkin.

“Truth,” he reads. “Strangest place you’ve ever had sex?” One sip of whiskey, he answers, “Back of a Walmart outside.” He crumples the napkin.

Oscar and Akara rib him for choosing Walmart, and he just nods.

Dice in hand, we roll again. More bets and swigs of whiskey, water and Lightning Bolt! and Quinn loses the round.

“Get it, Quinnie,” Donnelly jokes as Akara jostles the baseball hat to the youngest bodyguard. Quinn digs his hand in the napkin shreds.

“Dare, lick the floor.” Quinn shakes his head at Donnelly and slides off the stool. “You’re sick, bro.”

Donnelly smirks.

“Need a puke bucket?” Farrow banters.

Quinn humphs and kneels down. Licking the floor in point-two seconds. Then he’s back on the stool. We roll. Cosmic justice at play, Donnelly loses a dice next.

“Truth,” he reads a napkin, “how much longer do you see yourself working in security? ‘Til I’m dead or fired, whichever one comes first.” He sucks his cigarette and slides the pack to Akara. Filmy haze of smoke clouds the air. It doesn’t bother me, but I’m not much of a smoker.

Donnelly loses another dice. “Truth, who has the best ass here?” He drums the table and then points to Oscar. “For the self-esteem boost.”

“Aw, fuck you.” He messes Donnelly’s chestnut hair.

We all laugh, but in the back of my mind, I think about how he’s chosen two easy truths. Leaving behind more difficult ones.

And after I make a bad bet, I lose the round. One dice gone, and as I pick a truth or dare, no one speaks. Air strains.

I flatten the napkin, black pen scrawled across, and I read, “Truth, worst sex you’ve ever had?” Fuck.

Farrow curves his arm protectively around my waist but leisurely swigs his drink. I can handle this, and I’d be pissed if he spoke on my behalf. So he’s not trying.

“Please tell me it’s Farrow,” Oscar says. “The guy needs knocked down a couple pegs after landing you.”

Farrow’s amused smile gradually expands. “Feeling threatened? You really did need that self-esteem boost, Oliveira.”

Oscar claps.

“Worst sex I’ve ever had…” I draw their attention. “Is easily a girl I hooked up with a couple years back.” I rest my forearms on the table, sort of leaned forward. “She started crying about five minutes in, not upset. Just overwhelmed. She kept saying how she loved me—and I get it, that’s not that big of a problem, but we agreed to a one-time, one-night thing. And I don’t really like fucking people while they’re crying.”

Quinn winces. “Damn, bro, that’d kill me too.”

Akara pats my back.

Oscar nods, not even marginally surprised. “I bet people lie to you about their virginity all the time too. Just so you’ll still fuck them.”

“Lied,” Farrow corrects his misuse of present tense.

Oscar throws a peanut at Farrow, who catches it and throws it back.

“Probably,” I tell Oscar, and I think that the truths or dares can’t be more sexual than that. But I’m also not that damn lucky.

Next rounds fly by, and Quinn is out of the game, losing his last two dice. He accidentally keeps choosing Donnelly’s dares. He sniffs Donnelly’s armpit and then tries to chug whiskey while doing a handstand.

“Truth,” Oscar reads after he finally loses a dice, “tell us your most recent lay.” He ties a blue bandana across his forehead. “Cleveland—”

“No way,” Quinn says.

“Learn, my little bro, you take the short windows of time, and you make it happen. Your dick will appreciate you. Just like my dick appreciated the tour’s hairstylist.”

“Olana?” Akara asks.

“Ol-ana,” Oscar says like fuck yeah.

Akara inhales. “She’s a babe.”

“Top-shelf,” Donnelly agrees.

I hired her, so I’m starting to feel protective. But I realize that Olana could easily be talking to the female FanCon crew about the bodyguards. In the same exact way.

Farrow loses his first dice the same time he lights a cigarette. He’s smoked around me a few times before. “Truth.” He blows smoke upwards. “Who’s the sexiest person here?” He catches me staring at him, and his brows lift. “It’s not you.”

He’s about to name himself. I couldn’t care less about being the “sexiest” guy in any damn room, but I crave to beat him at something.

My brows furrow at him. “I didn’t fucking realize you were on the Sexiest Men Alive list. Unless your name is Maximoff Hale.”

They laugh, and Farrow can’t detach his gaze from mine. I lassoed him somehow, and the more intensely he stares, the more blood pumps south.

Fuck me.

I skim his mouth.

His Adam’s apple bobs hard, and he reluctantly tears his gaze. Putting his cigarette back in his mouth, he says, “You’re something else.” He picks up his dice and announces to the table, “I’m the sexiest bastard here. Clearly.” His hand on my waist subtly slips beneath my T-shirt, on my skin. Warming me—God, that feels more than good.

Next round.

Akara loses. “Fuck.” He picks out of the hat. “Truth, describe losing your virginity.”

“That one time at band camp…” Farrow banters.

“Hilarious,” Akara says with a warm smile, and he even explains to me, “all Farrow remembers about me from high school is that I was on the drumline. And I remember nothing about him.”

His lips quirk, and he taps ash on a tray.

“I was sixteen,” Akara tells everyone. “First girlfriend. Both of us were virgins, and my parent’s place has a pool house. We decided we were ready, and first time, I made her come.”

I swig my water. “That was beautiful,” I say, sarcasm thick.

“Pay up.” Donnelly holds out a palm to Oscar.

“Fuck you, Akara,” Oscar curses. “I bet fifty that Quinn would get the Hale sarcasm first.”

I screw my cap on my water bottle. “I did it to Farrow first.”

Donnelly opens a new pack of cigarettes. “We eliminated Farrow from the bet since you always rib him.”

Farrow steals the cigarettes out of Donnelly’s hands. “Go bet on your Cobalts and leave the Hales alone. Or go for the Meadows—”

“No, off-limits,” Akara says, defending his client. There are some moments, some small, others big, that I see and feel how much love and pride they carry for the people they protect.

For three famous families.

For us, and it means more to me than I can ever articulate. I end up smiling, one that courses through my whole body and brightens every fucking piece of me.

We play the next round.

Oscar loses and reads a truth, “Oldest person you’ve fucked? Maybe a forty-year-old a couple years ago.” He shrugs. “I was twenty-eight.”

Another hand, and I’m down a second dice. Here we go. I reach into the hat. Unfurl the napkin.

I read the words silently. “I can’t drink,” I say with the shake of my head. A dare to take three shots of whiskey is a hardline that I won’t let anyone peer-pressure me to cross.

Cigarette between his lips, Farrow tosses the napkin shred back in the hat. “Pick again.” Fuck me and his movements. My blood heats at his sheer confidence that matches and wrestle-fucks mine.

I choose again. “Truth,” I read the neat scrawl that I think belongs to Thatcher. “What’s your greatest fear?” I pause, not needing to contemplate long. “Watching someone I love die.”

Farrow rubs my back beneath my shirt, and we all roll again. Making bets, Donnelly loses his last dice and picks the three whiskey shots dare.

My phone vibrates as the guys start pouring shots. A text message from my little sister Kinney at 3:24 a.m., a witching hour, means only one thing.

I asked the Ouija board if you suck and the ghost told me yes. – Kinney

She’s still pissed that she’s not allowed on tour. I text back: I love you more than the ghost hates me. I pocket my phone. At my choice of words, I instantly recall the past. Something my dad said to me once.

I can practically hear his voice.

“You can hate me for two days, Maximoff, but I’ll love you for a thousand more.” I was almost seven, and my parents grounded me for the first time. I screamed, “I hate you!” at my dad. Not thinking, not realizing how much that must’ve hurt him.

And that’s what he told me.

The memory sticks with me for a while, but I try to retrain my attention on the game. Donnelly downs his third shot.

Farrow swigs his energy drink and studies my expression.

I’m alright. Our eyes meet, and I just move out of instinct more than anything. I wrap my arm around him, sort of clutching the base of his neck and shoulder. My thumb gently skims his skin—

“You shouldn’t be touching,” Thatcher tells us.

Fuck. I drop my arm. Feeling like shit. I don’t value touching Farrow over the jobs of SFO. I don’t.

I’m just juggling a relationship with these major consequences—and I never claimed to be good at any of this.

Farrow snuffs his cigarette on the ashtray. “I was wondering when our chaperone would show up.”

“I never left,” Thatcher retorts. “Remember that.”

“I’m choosing not to,” Farrow says easily.

Thatcher opens his mouth, and Akara says, “Moving on.” Thatcher nods and the game continues with another hand.

Farrow loses. “Dare, let the person you least like write something on your chest.” He already tosses a pen at Thatcher, and then he grips the hem of his shirt. He looks at me with a rising smile that says, try not to get hard, wolf scout.

I glower, my tongue running over my molars. Don’t fucking smile, Maximoff.

He pulls his black shirt over his head, his tattoos and cut muscles in full view, but it’s his unabashed, casual confidence that almost strokes my cock.

Almost.

I can contain a hard-on.

Farrow climbs off the stool and stands in front of Thatcher. “Wherever you can find space to write fuck you, Farrow, go ahead.”

Thatcher uncaps the pen. Without a word, he writes I promise to follow the rules near his collarbone.

Farrow just rolls his eyes, and then he tucks his shirt in his back pocket. Returning to the stool beside me.

Another roll, and Thatcher is fucked on the bet. He loses his second dice. “Truth,” he reads, “how hot do you find your client—no, this is inappropriate, Oscar.”

“I can explain,” Oscar says in a professional tone. “I meant for Akara to pick that.”

Akara shakes his head repeatedly. “No.”

Donnelly lights another cigarette. “On a scale of one to ten, Thatch, how hot is Jane Cobalt?”

“It’s Thatcher,” he corrects Donnelly.

This isn’t that bad. Janie would be beyond fucking curious just to hear the answer. And I’d tell her in a heartbeat.

“I’m not answering this,” Thatcher says adamantly.

“To the surprise of no one,” Farrow declares and then motions for another round to start. When Akara loses next, his dare says to call the 5^th contact in his phone and propose to them.

His fifth contact is Banks Moretti, and he has Thatcher’s twin brother on the line in less than a minute. “Banks?” Akara says, phone cupped to his mouth.

“Yeah?” His voice sounds identical to Thatcher’s.

“Hey, you know I love you, man.”

“Uh, yeah?”

Thatcher starts smiling, maybe for the first time all night. I know that look. I’ve worn it before. That’s his family, his home, and it shows.

Akara sips his whiskey. “And you’re my number five, my ride-or-die guy—”

“Alright, now you’re full of shit.”

“Will you marry me, Banks Moretti—”

“Goodnight, SFO.” Banks figures out that Akara is on speakerphone. He hangs up, and Thatcher loses his third dice. Out of the game.

He picks his last truth or dare. “Truth, when’s the last time you jacked off?” He finishes off his whiskey. “Three hours ago.”

“Hotel pit stops are saving us all,” Oscar says and refills his little brother’s whiskey glass.

Farrow, Akara, Oscar, and I only have one dice apiece. Last one left with a dice wins and doesn’t have to do a third truth or dare, and honestly, I want to win.

I play conservatively, but Farrow loses. He sticks his hand in the hat. “Hoping for a dare.” He pulls one out. “Perfect. Dare.” His smile is out of this goddamn world as he reads, “Fake an orgasm at the table.”

Wait. What.