Page 3 of Last Call


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Welcome to my life. A series of bad decisions, one after the other, with one glaring exception. The one that was poised to make me a billionaire in my own right, my parents’ money be damned.

Just one FDA approval, three more months of pleasing them and my father, and then . . . let the games begin.

2

Ada

“What in the ever-loving . . .”

My friend Karlene, who’s smarter than anyone I’ve ever met, including my father, is currently peering under the stalls in the bathroom.

She stands up. “Just checking. I wanted to make sure it’s safe.”

“From?”

And here I’d thought we’d come in here to pee and maybe put on some lip gloss.

“To talk abouthim.”

I assumehimrefers to the half of the sponsor duo who bothered to show up to the meeting. And she’s right—there’s no denying he’s easy on the eyes.

“Mr. DeLuca?” I guess.

Karlene pulls a lipstick out of her purse. “He looks like a cross between David Gandy and”—she shrugs—“I don’t know, Michelangelo’sDavidor something. And he’s about to be richer than both of them. Can you imagine? An alcohol with an antidote? No more drunk driving? It’s nuts.”

My favorite thing about Karlene? The unlikely cross between intelligence and silliness that keeps people off-balance.

“It’s impressive,” I agree. “Also, do you even know what Michelangelo’sDavidlooks like?”

She opens her mouth, making an O.

“Uh-huh.”

I don’t actually need to go to the bathroom. Or reapply lip gloss. I’m only here because the moment Mr. DeLuca asked for a ten-minute break, despite the fact that our meeting had barely started, Karlene gave me “the look.”

I should have guessed why.

“So maybe now is a good time for me to remind you that you’re married.”

I say it in good fun. As Karlene reminds me all the time, married doesn’t mean dead.

She puts the lipstick back into her purse. “Oh shit. I knew there was a snag in my plan.”

“Which plan exactly?”

“The one where I take Mister Angel, Incorporated back to my apartment and let him have his way with me.”

“Mmm-hmm, I figured as much.”

“But . . .”

I know that look.

“Don’t go there.”

Karlene has been trying to play matchmaker since we met four years ago. She’s even succeeded (temporarily) a few times. But this won’t be one of those times.

“I’m just saying. If I were single, and that”—she waves her arm out toward the conference room—“were anywhere in my vicinity, the FDA could go to hell in a handbasket.”

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