“He’s making a play for my girlfriend and you’re asking what’s wrong with me?” “Are you crazy? I’m not after your girlfriend,” I growl. “You sent her a text that says, and I quote: Come over to my place and don’t tell your boyfriend.” I falter. “Oh, in hindsight, that was worded poorly.” Beckett doubles over in laughter. “Jesus. That’s fucking priceless, mate.”
