Page 23 of Moonshot

Mick: What are you wearing, princess?

What is it with men and this? I guess they’re visual creatures.

9:54 p.m.

Ava: A crown

There. I’m not answering that predictable question the way he wants.

Michael York

9:57 p.m.

Mick: Just a crown. Fuck, that’s hot.

Oh, lord. So much for that.

10:00 p.m.

Ava: You’re ridiculous

Michael York

10:09 p.m.

Mick: Hey, grab my butt (a snowman emoji, three laughing emojis, and a carrot)

Okay, what’s he talking about? Is he drunk?

10:11 p.m.

Ava: What on earth are you going on about?

Michael York

10:21 p.m.

Mick: Anna said shoe size doesn’t matter. But it does (eggplant emoji)

Oh, jeez. Really? How am I supposed to get to sleep now? Wait. Who’s Anna?

10:24 p.m.

Ava: What did you do tonight?

Michael York

10:28 p.m.

Mick: It was hot. Too hot.

Um, what? My stomach starts to churn a bit. This doesn’t make sense. My gut tells me he’s been drinking. Because none of this conversation sounds like Michael. Maybe I should just call him, so I don’t make myself crazy worrying about this all night.

Dialing his number, I chew the inside of my cheek as I wait for his sultry voice to come across the phone line, reassuring me he’s okay.

“Hello?” His voice sounds thick. Still sexy, but different from our recent conversations.

“Um, hi. The texts were getting weird, so I thought I’d call.”

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