“Ah, okay. What happened to that?” “Long story,” I confess. Weston slings one big arm over my shoulders and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Let me guess—partying and shenanigans were involved, and you were very politely asked to leave.” My outraged glare lasts about half a second. “I hate that we went to high school together,” I grumble. “Why? ’Cause it means I know you too well?” He smirks. “Yes,” I say grudgingly.
