Page 96 of Sugar

Easton: I’ll alert the Vatican.

Me: Please do. Maybe it’ll earn me sainthood. I would look good on a candle.

Easton: Yes, you would. Would you like another massage to celebrate your free day?

At one of our dinners earlier in the week, I’d offhandedly mentioned that my back and muscles were so stiff, they were basically made of steel and concrete. After he’d scolded me for not saying anything when he’d had me sitting on the floor in his office—something I’d quickly become obsessed with in the week and a half since he’d first had me do it—he’d booked me a long massage and facial at the nicest spa I’d ever stepped foot in.

Good sugar baby that I was, I hadn’t even argued about it.

I was tempted to accept the offer, but Wren had messaged the night before to request a special Saturday brunch. I didn’t want to put a time limit on that since she’d seemed… off.

Me: No, thank you. I also don’t need coffee today.

Easton: I don’t know if that’s another miracle I should alert the Vatican of, or if that was a code sentence to make me aware you’ve been kidnapped.

A buzz of that giddy adrenaline tingled through me, and I opened the camera. It took a dozen attempts and a few position adjustments so he couldn’t see the collection of cups on my nightstand or the discarded clothing options I’d piled onto the bed to deal with later. But I finally got a cute enough picture, and I sent it to him.

Me: Proof of life.

As soon as I pressed send, bestie bickering filled my apartment. It grew louder as they approached before pausing in the hallway.

“Are you seriously still asleep, Mads?” Greer called.

“Hide your shame and your nudity,” Wren added as the door was pushed open.

Neither actually entered.

I tossed my phone into my bag—a new one from Easton—and stood. “It’s safe to come in.”

Both women finally stepped into the room and gave exaggerated shocked faces. It was Greer who spoke. “You’re actually awake.”

I put my palm to my chest like I was wounded by their—incredibly accurate—insinuations. “If one of my best friends in the world requests brunch, of course I sacrifice my sleep for them.”

“And for the French toast,” Wren put in.

“And that, yes.”

Once we were seatedat the restaurant, I looked over to see Wren using her nails—that time designed like little jack-o’-lanterns for fall, despite the week of unseasonably warm weather—to nervously stab her napkin.

I didn’t have to push to get answers. She volunteered them. “I want you guys to meet Chris.”

That wasn’t a surprise. If anything, it was more shocking that it’d taken so long for that to occur.

And that she was nervous about it.

Greer shot me a quick look that I took to mean she was equally confused before she said, “It’s about time. When?”

“Tonight? I know it’s last minute but I’m really, really excited.”

Easton.

I was finally going to meet a client, dammit.

I might still if he doesn’t allow me to break the plans.

That thought should’ve been a red flag. Actually, it should’ve been a confetti cannon of them.

It wasn’t.