A woman in her midfifties, wearing a white skirt and carrying a tennis racket, jogged down the stairs toward them. “Excuse me,” Nick said, turning on the charm. “You’re Sabrina Van Der Woodsen, aren’t you? It’s me, Bojack Flintstone, class of 2002.” The woman blinked, then frowned. “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong gal. I’m Matty West, and I wish I were class of 2002.” “Sorry.” He feigned chagrin. “You look just like her.” She continued on down the hall. “What was that about?” Riley asked. “That was just in case. Game face, Thorn,” Nick said as he reached for the door handle to the spa entrance.
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