Page 57 of The Contract

Which explains the line.

Though it doesn’t explain why it’s all women.

I seriously doubt Dante D’Angelo is hosting a Magic Mike revue inside.

Even if he’s damn sure built for one.

Shut. Up.

Maybe I should’ve taken Knox up on that brainstorming session. Clearly, I’m miles out of my depth.

And since it’s either face this line or endure another round with the sweaty yeti on the bus, I choose the line. His greasy leer was bad enough, but that skin-crawling whisper—“See you around”… Yeah, no thanks.

I shove my phone back into my purse, drop my chin to my chest, and reluctantly take my spot at the end.

Again, I tug at my dress. Kennedy’s dress, technically, though I’m not sure it counts as one. Black, stretchy, painted on, and riding up so high it barely cleared my butt.

Dancing is literally her life, gifting her with a sculpted ass, an endless arsenal of unitards, and jeans so tiny not even divine intervention could squeeze me inside.

Not that I didn’t try.

But now, eyeing the line-up of spandex-clad goddesses ahead of me, I’m seriously regretting not taking my chances on a unitard.

“Oh my gosh—it’s him! Mr. D’Angelo!” one of the women gasps, clutching her friend’s forearm with manicured talons sharp enough to gut a man.

“Where?” Her friend nearly snaps her neck trying to spot him.

I have the polar opposite reaction, instantly dropping my hair forward to shield my face, which is ridiculous, considering I’m practically invisible behind this towering wall of glamazons.

Curiosity—and a hint of panic—gets the better of me.

I inch forward, discreetly scanning the street until I land on the man leaning against a lamppost.

Relief floods my veins.

“Definitely not him,” I mumble, releasing a quiet breath of relief.

Both women whip their heads toward me in unison, pinning me with enough disdain you’d think I was pair of flip-flops at a Jimmy Choo sale.

“As if you would know,” one of them sneers. Her voice drips with enough condescension that every Scottish fiber in my being has the sudden, desperate need to rip out her ultra-fake, ultra-blonde extensions, strand by obnoxious strand.

But, I don’t.

Drawing attention to myself—especially of the catfight variety—is exactly what I don’t need right now.

Casually, I shrug and gesture vaguely toward the much shorter, much stockier man who’s obviously waiting for a bus. “Pretty sure Dante’s taller.”

“Dante?” they both echo, giggling. “That’s Mr. D’Angelo—especially to someone like you.”

Their eyes carve another slow, dissecting path from my head down to my shoes. An art mean girls perfect somewhere between sixth-grade sleepovers and senior-prom.

As if I’m actually competition.

These women drip with outrageous confidence, deep-fried in sex appeal. Each one dressed—or barely dressed—to varying degrees that make Kennedy’s dance-wear the Amish equivalent of athleisure.

And the heels—sweet Jesus, let’s not forget the heels.

If your arsenal includes cherry-red lipstick and six-inch come-fuck-me’s, congratulations: you’ve officially found your tribe.

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