“Apropos, Cal—you’re hired as a waitress at Descartes,” Rhyland announced dryly, pulling out his phone and tossing it into my hands. He tucked his joint behind his ear. “Program your number and email in, and we’ll hammer out the small print. Congrats, kiddo.” “Yes!” I jumped up in the air, mustering some courage and offering my open palm for Rhyland to shake. He stared at it dispassionately, not making a move. “No thanks, sweetheart. Touching you is not on my agenda. I like my limbs exactly where they are.” Tucking my crusty cupcake hair behind my ear, I said, “I won’t let you down. I
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