Miss Goody Two Shoes
Sun-bright and sweet, with an edge of sharp, not a single fleck of pulp or pith, leaving this citrus-glitter on her tongue.
Typical. Billionaires even had better squeezed fruit products. Orange juice of this caliber: second-best wake-up call after a bj.
Aiden was watching her, hands resting in his lap, the epitome of composure but for the hint of tightness at his knuckles.
Fuck. He was going to dump her.
He’d brought her orange juice, and now he was dumping her. It was the orange juice of condolence. Or maybe he just thought she wouldn’t hit him if she had something in her hand.
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