“Excuse me?” Because, I could have chugged a cup of coffee already. As for my mom, I have no idea what she’s rambling about, nor do my hangover and I care.

“Last night, the bar, the men—” She stares at me, and I notice her face is completely made up, although she’s still in her robe.

“I’ll explain everything to her, Rachel,” Jett says dryly as my mom’s eyes narrow on me. She brings her phone back to her ear.

“Lunatic,” I mumble, rolling my eyes and following Jett outside. “Christ.” I groan again, way too hungover for no coffee and any more lectures. God, maybe I can take a quick nap. I dig in my bag for my sunglasses.

“Where exactly are we going?” I slide into the back of the car this time.

“You’re going to intern for me until you go to Stanford.” He sits next to me as the car pulls out of the driveway. I don’t respond, but rub my temples, wishing to God the freaking Advil would do its magic.

“Wait. What?” I sigh, turning to him. He seems absorbed with whoever he’s texting because he’s ignoring me. My eyes take in his handsome profile. Why does he have to be so damn hot?

“Let’s pull through Starbucks and get Raven and the others some coffee.” He looks up.

“You got it, Mr. Powers.” Iain nods. Does the man ever get a day off? Even if Jett isn’t working, Iain is still around.

“Jett?” I ask.

He continues to text, not looking up.

“Mr. Powers?” My voice gets louder, causing him to arch a dark brow at me.

“What? You don’t want coffee?”

“Yes, I want coffee.” I almost laugh, because he really is the master manipulator, but this is his second comment about Stanford. He needs to stop.

“I’m not going to Stanford. As for interning, I would love to.” Because it’s true; being able to have Jett Powers, Attorney at Law on my resume is golden.

He stops texting to look at me. “Darlin’, the only reason you’re going to work, and believe me this will be work, is because I will not tolerate you fucking around. You want to be a whore, you can do it when you’re at Stanford.” He states this like he’s speaking about the weather or asking me to pass the bread at a restaurant.

Trying to breathe, I blink at him. My headache just spiked to another level, and for a second I actually want to slap his arrogant, smug face. I dig my nails into the leather seat and feel a satisfying tear. His eyes trail down, then back to my face, the only emotion a slight tic on his right jaw.

“I’d think about it,” is all he says, then turns to order several coffees and bagels, along with some croissants and breakfast sandwiches.