I would pay a thousand dollars to exchange places with thirteen-year-old me right now. Two thousand. I would give my entire life savings for the chance to slip out of this conference room and away from Shelby’s glare and return to the middle of that pond and my dad’s booming baritone floating over to the high school girls sunning as he said, “It’s normal to touch yourself, kid. Just quit leaving the evidence for your mom to clean up.”

“As I was telling Cam before you arrived, Shelb. This—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Lyle sputters to a stop, his smarmy flow interrupted. His heavily groomed brows pinch together. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s news to me,” she mutters. “Nevertheless,” she continues, louder, “as we are supposedly here in a business capacity, I’d appreciate you using my full name. And his,” she adds as an afterthought, jerking her thumb at me, but not quite meeting my eyes.

I hide my laugh in a cough behind my fist and shift in my seat. “Yeah. I agree. Actually, I’d prefer you call me Mr. Riggs.”

Shelby’s full lips twitch in the corners. “Ms. Springfield, if it’s all the same, thanks.”

Lyle’s shit-brown eyes dart between us a full ten seconds before he sinks back into his plush leather office chair with an exasperated huff. He turns to the other men in the room. There are two, Tiberius and Phineas (or something equally absurd). Presumably, they are unrelated, as they look nothing alike, aside from their overpriced slim-fit suits. However, it seems unlikely two separate couples decided to name their kids after ancient Romans and that they, in turn, worked for the same oily asshole, Lyle Jessup.

Said asshole gestures toward us but speaks as if we’re not there. “What did I tell you, fellas? They’re perfect.”

“I can see it.”

“Go on.”

“Perfect for what?” I interrupt, my patience wearing thin. This room is about fifteen degrees too cold and every surface is reflective. It’s like an experiment in discomfort and intimidation. “What are you doing here, Lyle? I flew in to speak with a Tom Franklin. Where is he?”

“Weird. I was told I was speaking with a Mary Swanson,” Shelby says, leaning forward in her seat and folding her hands together on the shiny conference table. “I thought this was regarding a home-reno pilot. I’m not the slightest bit interested in a reunion show, Lyle. My agent could have told you that much on the phone.”