Nash frowns. “She doesn’t? And why is that?” “Because I’m sleeping with her, that’s why.” I go pallid. My neck does a one-eighty Exorcist twist toward Cal as my already pink cheeks morph into fuchsia. “Um.” Nash scratches the back of his head, shifting between feet. “Beg your pardon?” Cal crosses two big arms over his oil-stained t-shirt, his expression blasé. “I’m fucking her,” he repeats. “Regularly. Aggressively.”
