Fifteen minutes.
I spend the first five pacing.
The next five, convincing myself I'm not really going.
And the last five getting ready anyway.
I touch up my light makeup and tie my hair into a ponytail. I don't have time to wear anything fancy this time, and I'm exhausted from working today, so I decide on sweats and a T-shirt. He already seems interested in me; surely I don't have to keep dressing to the nines to hold his attention.
I glance at myself in the mirror. "Good enough," I mutter, shrugging on a light jacket to guard against the rain.
I tell myself this is all part of my plan.
But the moment I climb out my window and head for the street, I see the sleek black car waiting at the gates—its headlights cutting through the fog—and I already know that's a lie.
This isn't part of my plan.
It's stupid and dangerous.
My sneakers splash through puddles as I approach. I square my shoulders, readying myself, but my thoughts scatter when the driver's door opens.
