“I forgot that Natasha scheduled a meeting for today. Apparently she has some big announcement and we’re all expected in the office even though most of us work from home on Fridays. Shit.” I head directly for the bathroom, wishing I had time for an actual shower. Instead, I splash cold water on my face before sticking my mouth under the tap and drinking like we aren’t in a permanent drought.

May follows me into the bathroom, leaning against the counter, removing a nonexistent smudge from under her eye. “Are you going to be late?”

“Not if I leave in five minutes.” I wipe the final trail of mascara from my cheeks and don’t bother putting on any fresh makeup. I head for my closet, throwing on leggings and an old USC T-shirt—not my best look, but it will have to do. I pull my long auburn hair into the messiest of buns and unplug my phone. Thank god for car chargers. “Can you lock up?”

May emerges from the bathroom just in time to give my outfit a sneering look. “I would be fired if I stepped into my office looking like that.”

“I’m a writer, this is me in my natural state. Thanks, love you, bye!” I don’t bother waiting for her response, striding as fast as my queasy stomach will allow out the door and to my car. When I hook up my phone to my charger, two things happen: Britney blares from my speakers at an unholy level, causing me to recoil backward. And I notice the DM notification still on my screen from last night.

And the second half of my fucktacular evening comes rushing back to me.

Seth’s name on my screen and the memory of his cryptic message are enough to make my stomach churn again. The last thing I need in my current state is any sort of communication from him. I clear the notification and decide to deal with it later. Or never. He can’t actually be expecting me to call him, right?

Before I can even put the car in reverse, my phone rings, right as I’m vowing to never dial Seth Carson’s number for as long as I live. I physically jump in my seat.

It’s not Seth calling, but I’d almost rather it were.

I click Accept Call and switch the audio to my car’s Bluetooth. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, Lana.” My mother always calls me by my name. Never “sweetie” or “dear” or anything showing even a smidge of affection.

“This isn’t a great time, I’m on my way to work.” At least I have a legitimate excuse to stay on this call for as short as possible.

“Still working on your little relationship column?” Even from thousands of miles away, the judgment seeps through her tone.

“Yes, Mom, I’m still working on my award-winning relationship column.”