“Because he looks like he was grown in a lab? Because he smells like a very expensive candle? I was four cubicles away and I caught a whiff and I have not forgotten.”
“He’s a source, Weston,” I remind him acidly. “I cover his company.”
“Okay, but like, hypothetically,” he insists. “If he wasn’t a source.”
Weston blinks at me. “Jillian. Jill. Jilly. My girl. My love. My darling… The man is everyone’s type. He’s universally, objectively, scientifically attractive.” He tilts his head. “Since when do you even have a type? Weren’t you just telling me about that Hinge guy a couple weeks ago? I think I specifically recall you saying, ‘He wasn’t my type, but he was still hot, so I went back to his place.’”
My face blushes as I remember that lie, one of a billion similar ones I’ve told since We
