Page 49 of Sugar

And I did, right up until Wren sat down and Greer turned the conversation to me. “Now tell us about the interview.”

“It was a normal interview,” I lied.

Kind of.

The interview itself had been normal. My thoughts and feelings hadn’t been. Nor was the fact my follow-up communication had come in the form of stalking.

“That’s boring,” Wren said.

“It wasn’t an investigative thing. I just needed to get enough to make him and Coastal look good. I got it. The end.”

Even if I really,reallywish it wasn’t.

“And the pin drop?” Greer pushed. “You said it was a bar.”

I thought about lying and saying it sucked since I doubted I would ever be able to go to Golden without trying to sneak into Gilded. I kept it simple instead. “I popped into a nearby bar. It was nice.”

When they both looked suspicious, I gave them the only interesting tidbit I could share. “The bench in the library is in his honor for his donations.”

“The one students make their own donations on?” Wren asked with an eyebrow wiggle.

“Ew,” Greer cried as I mimicked barfing.

For as sweet as Wren was—and as angelic as she looked—she had the dirtiest sense of humor.

She proved both with a melodic giggle.

“But, yes,” I said. “Thatbench.”

“Did you tell him what happens on it?”

“Not as eloquently as you phrased it.”

“I know, I have a real way with words.”

“I bet he was pissed,” Greer said.

Thinking about the way he’d looked, I couldn’t hold back a smile. “Opposite. I think he would’ve been more pissed if it was just gathering dust.”

“Instead, it’s gathering—” Wren began, but I covered my ears and jumped up before she could finish her gross thought.

My words came out loud and dramatic. “I need to transfer my load.”

She waited until I uncovered my ears to say, “That’s what they say on the bench.”

I shook my head and walked across the room because it hadn’t just been an excuse. I started to transfer my clothes into the dryer but paused when my phone vibrated in my back pocket.

Easton.

I rolled my eyes at myself and pulled it free to see that, unsurprisingly, it wasn’t a text from him. Or from anyone.

It was an email.

I nearly pocketed it since ninety-nine percent of the ten thousand-plus unread emails in my inbox were junk. The remaining one percent were school emails that I wasn’t concerned with on a Saturday afternoon. For whatever reason, though, something in my head said I should look.

From: Cohen Novak

What the hell?