Page 33 of Gamebreaker

"Fun. Right. Is Cam going to be there?"

"Probably."

"Then it won't be fun. It'll be an exercise in restraint and forced civility. It'll be like Thanksgiving with relatives you hate, except without the benefit of stuffing and gravy.”

"You don't hate Cam."

"I don't like her."

"You don't know her."

"I know enough. She's judgmental and intense, and she looks at me like I'm a particularly disappointing crossword puzzle she can't solve." I pulled down the visor mirror and checked my lipstick. I'd gone with red again because if I was going to suffer through an evening of forced social interaction, I was going to look sultry and hot while doing it. “Also, she has the emotional range of an expired can of Chef Boyardee.”

"She smiled at the clinic."

“A little. She smiled a little. And then she remembered she has a reputation as Captain Miserable to uphold and went back to scowling at the world."

"You made her smile, though."

I snapped the visor back up. "What's your point?"

"My point is you two have chemistry."

"We have hostility, Mia. That’s very different."

"Sometimes those are the same thing.”

"Mia. Babe. Light of my life. I love you, but you're wrong. Cam and I do not have chemistry. We have mutual tolerance at best and barely concealed irritation at worst. The only reason we survived that clinic without killing each other is because there were children present, and even I have standards about committing murder in front of minors."

Mia just smiled that knowing smile that made me want to throw myself out of a moving vehicle.

"I'm changing my answer," I said. "We're leaving at eight."

Isla and Trish's mansion was the kind of place that made you feel poor just looking at it. Sweeping driveway, perfectly manicured landscaping, architectural lighting that gave it a real estate magazine front page quality. I stepped out of Mia's pearl pink Kia feeling like I should've worn something fancier than distressed jeans and a band tee tucked in at the waist, even though this was supposed to be a casual game night.

"I hate rich people," I muttered.

"Isla and Trish are lovely. You adore them,” Mia said, already heading for the front door.

"They can be lovely and adored, and I can still hate them for having a house that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread.”

The door opened before we could knock. Isla stood there in similarly ripped jeans—only hers were acid-washed while mine were dark—and an oversized sweater, her red and silver hair in an intentionally messy bun, grinning like she'd been waiting for us specifically.

"Harper! You came!"

"I was coerced."

"You were invited."

"Same thing, different font." I stepped inside, immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of wealth on display. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, art that was definitely original and probably cost more than my student loans. "Jesus Christ. Do you guys just casually live here? Like, every day?"

"It's home," Trish said, appearing from what I assumed was the kitchen, carrying one of their five Pomeranians. She was in workout clothes, because apparently professional athletes just looked effortlessly perfect at all times. "Help yourself to food. Drinks are in the kitchen. We're waiting for Laine and a couple of the other girls from the team, then we'll start games."

"Games plural?" I grabbed a stuffed mushroom from a nearby tray. "How long is this event?"

"However long it takes," Isla said. Her smile was absolutely diabolical.

I turned to Mia. "I want to leave."