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Chapter One
Savannah
* * *
“Can we both just agree that taking this job is a horrible idea?” my sister, Trinity, asks.
Her voice is coming from my bra because my ancient Corolla doesn’t have a Bluetooth connection. So, if I want to obey Austin’s hands-free driving laws, I have to shove my phone into my bra while I drive.
I’m out near the small town of Honey Lake, well outside the city limits, so theoretically there should be less traffic. Still, safe driving is safe driving.
“No,” I tell Trinity. “You think it’s a bad idea. I think it’s my last, best hope of salvaging my career and staving off debtors’ prison.”
“You read too many historical romance novels. There are no debtors’ prisons anymore.”
Trinity, who is working on her PhD in psychology, is the smart one in the family, so she’s probably right on both counts. “Okay then, it’s my last, best hope of salvaging my career and staving off bankruptcy.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Trinity asks, “Is it really that bad?”
Yes. However bad she’s imagining, it’s that bad. Or worse. My bank account is down to pennies and my credit cards are beyond maxed out. I still have bills rolling in from the law firm. And the worst—the absolute worst part, the part that keeps me up at night—is that I borrowed money from Mom. It was months ago, back when the lawyers assured me the case was a slam dunk.
I can’t believe I fell for that shit.
I can’t believe that—at twenty-six—I was stupid enough to let my mother take money out of her 401K. That was back when I was sure I would win. When I thought it was just a small probate issue.
Fuck. I was such a fool.
Here I am, a year later, drowning in debt, guilt, lies, and buried rage. And exhaustion.
God, I’m so tired of fighting everything. I’m so tired of losing.
Unfortunately, I take too long to respond to Trinity’s question.
“If it’s really that bad—” Her voice is uncharacteristically soft. “—You should let me help.”
“Trin, you’re in grad school. Aren’t you barely living above the poverty line?”
“I could—”
“Absolutely not.” There’s no fucking way. I’m not dragging another family member down into this pit.
“I want to help.” She sounds stung. “And I don’t want you to do … this. This is madness.”
I snort. “Stop being so dramatic. Being a personal chef is a real job. Lots of people do it.”
“That’s not the part that has me freaked out. It’s all the … other stuff.”
Her tone implies the “other stuff” is weird and kinky. Lurid and potentially dangerous.
“Well, sure, when you say it in that voice.”
“What tone of voice am I supposed to use when you can’t even tell me the details of your contract with this guy?”
She sighs.
I sigh.
“I can’t tell you the details because I signed an NDA.”
