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“I don’t think so.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Miss Swift is scared she’s going to die, Miss March.”
“Exactly,” I said. “We shouldn’t get in the way of God’s plan.”
He laughed and pulled onto the street, ignoring my request.
With every streetlight he sped through, my blood simmered.
Working at a publishing house—in the romance division, especially—was supposed to be a dream come true. The job description literally ticked off everything I wanted in life: Free new release paperbacks, chances to meet my favorite authors, and exclusive early copies of novels.
Yet, years of working under Hazel Swift—an airheaded heiress who knew nothing about books—quickly revealed that those things came with a price, and I never had enough free time to pay.
She pulled this “emergency” stunt on the eve of my birthday every year, and I had no right to be surprised. She always came up with some ridiculous reason why she needed me— “Someone scuffed my brand-new Manolos before the party!” “My boyfriend just dumped me!” “I’m having a panic attack and need you to come hold my hand”—and made me so exhausted that I gave in and worked on my big day, postponing whatever celebration plans my friends and I made.
That wasn’t happening this year, though.
I refused.
The moment I handled her nonexistent problem, I was treating myself to that blowout, putting on my brand-new Chanel dress, and spending a night on the town with whatever Kristin and Madison wrote on my scavenger hunt.
As I envisioned a night with a sexy book boyfriend, Bennie cleared his throat.
“We’re here,” he said. “You can go in now.”
“Thanks, Bennie.” I stepped out and swiped my key against the entry doors. Then I rode a private elevator up to the penthouse suite.
Bracing myself for bullshit, I pushed the doors open, and my eyes immediately begged me for bleach. My brain demanded a memory eraser.
Frozen still on her living room floor, Hazel was completely naked and crying on all fours.
I stepped back, ready to abandon her, but she spotted me.
“About time you showed up!” She whined. “Can you wash your hands and get over here, please?”
Leave and let her die, Chloe. She deserves it.
“Chloe!” She yelled. “Do it now!”
I dropped my bag to the floor and zombie-walked to the kitchen, taking extra time to squeeze the soap into my palms. I hummed the chorus to my favorite song before rinsing them, and then I took my precious time drying them off with a paper towel.
“What’s going on?” I finally walked over to her. “Is something wrong with your stomach?”
“No … It’s my vagina.”
“Your what?”
“My va-gi-na!” Tears fell past her cheeks. “The guy I had sex with last night went home hours ago, but he left something painful behind.”
I eyed the front door again.
It’s not like she would catch me.
“It burns like all hell, Chloe.”
“I don’t know anything about treating STDs.” I stepped back. “You need to get someone else.”
“He left the condom.” Her voice cracked. “It’s stuck inside me, and I can’t grab it.”
“So…”
