“It is grade-A farm fertilizer. I would know, I’m from Wisconsin.” He pulls me closer on my wheely chair and drags my hand into his lap. “Jill, sweetheart, you roll in here every day looking like a goddamn magazine cover. Hair done, outfit coordinated, nails perfect. Today, you’re wearing a navy blazer with black pants and your shirt is inside out.”
I glance down. My shirt is, in fact, inside out. And backwards. The tag is poking out right under my chin. f**k me.
“So whatever’s going on,” he continues, “it’s not from a fun one-night stand. Try again.”
The look in Weston’s eyes says there’s no chance in hell I’ll be wriggling out of this one. But what am I supposed to do? The truth is obviously out of the question. After what happened to Elliot, the last thing I’m going to do is get anot
