“Hey, baby. You sure you don’t want to come upstairs with us?” the girl with the lacy red bra asks, spilling champagne all over my jacket as she leans in and presses her body up against me. For some reason, she’s cold. She shouldn’t be. The house is a good temperature.
“Yeah, come upstairs with us,” her friend with freshly bleached blond hair says, running a hand up the back of my thigh. “We’ll show you a great time.”
I came home from the office and found the house packed with girls. No explanation whatsoever. I sure as hell didn’t let them in, either; they were just here. But I know who’s responsible.
Emerson. That spoiled rotten, arrogant son of a b***h. He found out Anastasia and I were dating, and he orchestrated this stunt to try and ruin things. But I’m not going to let that happe
