“See, I told you he was interested,” Mara hisses. I look up without even thinking—it’s an automatic reaction—and there’s Wren Jacobi, sprawled out like King Shit on the leather couch by the windows, pointing right at Mara. Only, from this angle, it kind of looks like he’s pointing at me. The last thing I need is Wren Jacobi aiming a digit at me.
