Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Sarah
What have I done?
I should have told him before I accepted this date what I am really doing. How I’m writing an investigative piece about his company.
But noooooo . I had to lie by omission. And now here I am, in the back of an Uber, being questioned by Sean the Nosy Uberdick, who is making this date so much more complicated than it should be.
So far, so good. Case isn’t prying. But I’m dying inside, because how far into a meal that costs half a month’s student loan payment do I inform him that I’m actually writing an exposé on Chakroga123?
He’s lying too, of course. Yoga teacher, my ass. Why is the guy downplaying his role at Chakroga123? He’s the first franchisee ever, and he owns seven studios. I get that he might fill in for missing teachers here and there, but why hasn’t he told me the truth?
Most guys want to impress you with their business prowess. They go on about their jobs, puffing up their actual accomplishments. It becomes a blood sport, really, comparing degrees and pedigrees, levels of responsibility and work.
And don’t even get me started on the finance bros.
One date I had last year literally sat at the table, opened his menu, and said, “One forty seven.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what I make. A hundred and forty-seven thousand a year. You?”
Thankfully, Case isn’t so upfront about his, uh… measurements.
But he’s also being cagey about being a yoga teacher.
Why?
Instantly, I feel better about my lie. In fact, I’m feeling a bit judgey.
Slot B starts whimpering. Don’t worry, Slotty. I’m not turning down any Tab A action just because Case is a bit of a liar. I’ll have a nice screw and then we’ll deal with his ethical issues.
Stop overthinking this! Slot B screams.
You’re right. Don’t worry.
Slots before thoughts is my motto tonight.
“Hey,” Case says, his thumb rubbing my wrist. “Cat got your tongue?”
“You want to talk about pussy... cats?” I whisper. Oh, boy – Slot B has decided to take the wheel, hasn’t she?
“I’m game if you’re game.”
A warm prickly feeling creeps along my skin, delicious and full of sexual anticipation. My whole life, I’ve been the stereotypical good girl. Not in some big, uptight way. Even that would be easier – because I’m just restrained in small, simple ways. It’s not some OCD need to control the world, or a damaged piece of my soul holding me back.
My life has been so devoid of drama I don’t even have that .
My tendency to hold back is so boring because it’s, well… boring. I just don’t step outside of my comfort zone.
Ever.
Until last night. Last night I had a third glass of wine. I danced. I kissed a stranger in a bar. I took said stranger home with me.
I fucked him next to my teddy bear.
And now I’m flirting madly with him, making illicit innuendoes, and wow , does it feel good.
“WE ARE HERE!” Sean calls out as he hits the brakes. “Just in time, too!”
The shifty look he gives me in the rearview mirror makes it clear he heard every word there about, uh… cats.
Case and I separate, open our respective doors, and climb out.
“Thanks!” I say to Sean, who gives me a thumbs-up before looking at Case.
“Five stars, man. Five stars.”
“Of course,” Case replies, on his phone already, tapping until he finishes. “Done.”
“Good luck on whatever you two are calling tonight. It’s definitely not a date, but I don’t know how to categorize it. You’re either at the start of your last relationship ever, or you’re both secret spies for opposing teams who are about to have a reckoning. Either way, go to /relationships on Reddit and do an anonymous post about this date-not-date. You two are a world unto yourselves.”
And with that, he’s gone.
Case lets out a huge breath, as if he’s been holding it, slips his right hand into his pocket, and watches Sean drive away.
“What in the hell was that?” he asks.
“No clue.”
“Uber drivers are weird.”
“He was strangely direct.”
“You think he was right? We’re either at the precipice of finding our forever person, or you're a covert agent I’m supposed to take out?”
“You are, technically, taking me out,” I remind him.
“I meant murder.”
“Oh. Well. That’s different. Because when I said I was a sure thing, I was talking about the sex part. Not about contract kills.”
“You know the jargon!”
“And you recognized that I know the jargon.”
“You’re not really CIA, are you?”
“Are you MI6?”
“Americans don’t know about MI6!”
“Of course I do.”
“Sarah.”
“What?”
“I don’t care if you’re a spy.” Sweeping me into his arms, he kisses me like his tongue is a lethal weapon in twenty-nine countries because it kills people by making them come so hard their heads explode.
My thighs are quivering, begging to be chafed by his face, which reminds me:
“By the way,” I gasp, pulling away from this exceptionally spectacular kiss. “I can't believe you bit me.”
“ Bit you?”
“Yeah. I have a spot. Very clear teeth marks. Upper thigh. So upper it might as well have been vulva.”
He swallows, hard, then bites his lower lip. “I did not bite you.”
“Yes, you did!”
“Did not.”
“Then who did?”
“The other guy.”
“ Other guy?”
“We had a threesome, Sarah. Don't you remember?”
If eternity were a tangible experience and could be felt, it would feel like the two seconds between hearing Case say that and his “gotcha” grin.
“You asshole!” I smack his arm, my heart having cancelled its lease for the space it rents in my rib cage and relocating the higher-rent spot in my throat.
“Kidding. We didn't have a threesome. You were more than enough.”
“I should hope so!”
Eyes glittering in the glow of the streetlights and signs around us, the soundtrack to this moment the sounds of traffic and groups chattering in twos and fours in front of the restaurant, Case is a wonder. I’m simultaneously on edge and nervous, yet completely relaxed with him.
He offers me his elbow.
“Shall we?”
“Let’s.”
The walk up a small set of stairs to the sleek, urbane restaurant feels like a red-carpet prance. MoMoTaste is all gray smoked mirrors and warm amber lights outside, with a sleek neon sign with red accents and a custom-designed font. Created by a celebrity chef who is famous for making other overbearing celebrity chefs submit (rumors say in more ways than one…), it is the trendy restaurant in Boston, right on the edge of Chinatown, near the theater district.
And my favorite coffee shop/wine bar, but that’s for later.
Maybe.
I’m getting the sense that dessert is going to be in bed.
Breakfast, too.
Case holds the door for me, earning an awww from a couple on their way out, the woman about my mom’s age, smiling at me, ending with a wink. It’s exactly the kind of thing my mother would do in public if she saw a grand gesture like Case’s, and a pull inside my chest makes me miss my mom a little.
Just a little.
She’s back home in our small town on Western Mass. It’s not like she’s dead. I can call her right now if I want to but I don’t. Keeping Case to myself is my goal right now, and so far, I’m well on target. Not like I view Mom as competition.
Good grief, no.
More like I don’t want to fill her head with any ideas. I have the most boring mother in existence, but if I said a word about dating a guy I really like she’d be planning the wedding, calling Jimmy from the Elks Lodge to schedule the reception, complete with a DJ from Westfield State University and all the discount centerpieces you can find at Christmas Tree Shops.
Slot B will not cede to Mom.
“This is amazing,” I gasp as we walk inside the restaurant, the intense scent of garlic, tamari, and something I can’t name assaulting my senses. A huge bar is to our right, with more red and amber lighting accents. As Case approaches the ma?tre d', he slips the woman a bill and a pleased look comes over her face.
He is so smooth.
Case is amazing. More than amazing. How do guys know what to do in situations like this and simultaneously look so calm? Some piece of his DNA is programmed for this, a single nucleotide protein I am missing. Perhaps I possess something complementary, so I don’t have to feel like I’m lacking.
What does this man need that my DNA could provide?
“Cat got your tongue?” I joke as we’re guided to a table with a view of a courtyard filled with glowing fountains illuminated by various colored lights. Luminous and ethereal, it’s also sharp and edgy, a mix of modern and old that makes the space feel timeless.
Unreal.
But good unreal.
“Is that an invitation to make another lascivious joke?”
“I love your vocabulary,” I reply with a sigh as he pulls out my chair and stands there, giving me the smallest of bows, the smile on his face spreading, eyes dancing.
This kind of connection never happens to me.
Why does it have to happen now?
“Is that a compliment or an insult.”
“Compliment, for sure.”
As we chat and sit, the hostess watches us, taking in our situation, reading the space between us. Rarely one to frequent places this fancy, I wonder for a moment what kind of unwritten rules there are for working in an upscale establishment like this.
There is a layer to society I know nothing about. Not because I haven’t researched it.
Because I don’t have the bank account for it.
Case clearly does, which makes my stomach drop.
Investigating Chakroga123 means keeping my mind open for any kind of corruption. The tips I’ve received about the founder, Prakash Shanti, were a mixture of everything you can imagine, but they focus on financial corruption. If Case owns a bunch of the franchises, then is he involved in Shanti’s mess?
Until this moment, it never occurred to me to date him to mine him for my article. No, really . If I were that shrewd, I’d have a full-time position already at a major magazine. My heart gets in the way of everything.
And now, apparently, my clit has decided it, too, wants to double as a professional obstacle course.
I wonder how good Case is at parkour?
“Welcome to MoMoTaste,” the hostess says in her fake work voice, the vocal fry at the end of each sentence making the cartilage in my ears unfurl. “May I get you a cocktail to start?”
Case catches my eye and asks, “Shall we order a bottle of wine? A nice Pinot Grigio?”
I laugh. “Only if I stop at two glasses.”
He pretends to pout, then orders some specific vintage in that informed, sophisticated way that cultured men have in moments like this.
It makes my panties melt into the seat.
As I take a sip of the sparkling water the hostess poured, he catches my eye again, clearly as drawn to me as I am to him.
“Do you come here often?” I ask.
“Actually, no. A few times before,” he adds with a hand wave, looking out at the courtyard, where a water fountain show synchronized to an Ed Sheeran love ballad has just begun. “Good food.”
“Great atmosphere.”
He reaches for my hand. “And tonight, the best company.”
“Are you always like this?” I ask as I squeeze his hand, then try to relax and keep the touch.
“Like what?”
“So charming?”
“Am I?”
“Don’t be coy. You know you are. And that accent works for you.”
“I’m not putting on airs, if that’s what you mean. This is me.”
“I like you.”
Leaning in, he smiles wider, the candle between us casting dynamic shadows across his face as the fountain bursts like an orgasm.
“Good. Because given what I plan to do with you in my apartment after this dinner, it’s best that you like me.”
“Hate sex is a thing.”
He starts choking in surprise and lets go of my hand, reaching for his water, sipping quickly to compose himself.
“Um, yes. It is,” he agrees, but gives me a very skeptical look. “I cannot imagine having hate sex with you.”
His words hang in the air as a man we’ve never seen before, dressed in a white shirt and black pants, appears with the wine. One eyebrow cocks, enough to make it clear he heard Case, but he says nothing as he pours a beautiful white wine, the dim light catching a few bubbles.
I take my glass of wine, but here I wonder about those scenes in the movies where you let the wine air out, sniff it, wave the ghosts away, or do whatever you do to make wine better somehow. Isn’t wine just fine as is? What does smelling it and airing it out do to make it worth the wait?
Case does none of those finer things, instead reaching for his glass and holding it aloft. I mimic him and he asks, “A toast?”
“Sure.”
“To third glasses of wine, bendy body positions, and new beginnings.”
We clink glasses.
“I’ll drink to that. Cheers,” I say before taking a sip.
And spraying it all over poor Case.
From the way his face was screwed up in the seconds before I turned into a broken fire hydrant, it’s clear he tastes the nasty vinegar flavor, too.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say as I spit the rest of the nasty stuff out into the wine glass and gulp the sparking water until my glass is empty. Case searches for his napkin and I jump up, mine in my hand, and start patting him all over as if I can blot away my shame.
The hostess and the ma?tre d' make a beeline for our table as everyone looks our way, the colorful fountain choreography reaching another climax behind us.
“Sir! What happened?”
“My fault entirely,” Case says with a much nicer tone that I have the right to receive. “I should have tested the wine.”
Horror fills her features. “Bad?”
“Horrible,” I mutter. “I didn’t know wine could taste like vinegar and ass combined.”
Case pauses and blinks at me. “You know what ass tastes like?” His eyes flare with interest.
“NO! I mean, what I imagine ass tastes like. I don’t – remember – I’m the one who never had a one-night stand until last night with you. You think I’m eating ass? What’s it called – rimming?”
The ma?tre d' looks like she is ready to pickle me in the bad Pinot Grigio, but she plasters on a smile and leans close.
“Miss, can I interest you in a bottle of our finest Champagne as an apology, and also as a desperate plea that you stop talking about asses and rimming in our restaurant right now?” She points behind us. “There is a group of preschool teachers behind you celebrating a retirement among them.”
“Thank you, yes.” I catch Case’s eye. “Champagne?” He nods and smiles, licking his lips before drinking water to clear the vinegar.
One of the women in that group notices us and shouts, “We’re preschool teachers! We hear about butts all day!” They descend into the kind of laughter that only comes from a group of women who corral tiny aliens around all day and finally get a chance to let loose.
I wonder if any of them are about to have their first one-night stand tonight.
I whisper to the teacher who spoke. “Don’t have a third glass tonight. I did yesterday and look at where it’s gotten me.”
“Talking about rimming with a hot, wealthy dude with that gynecologist’s accent??” she replies.
Case turns around and gives her an impish smile. “Pardon me? What, exactly, is a ‘gynecologist’s accent’? I am not a doctor.”
“The kind that gets women to open their legs.”
He gives me a look. Before I can respond, the teacher stares at the empty bottle of wine on their table, frowning. “Besides, I think I had five glasses. We’ve been here for three hours.”
“If you had a one-night stand with only three glasses of wine in you,” the woman to her right says, “what happens on glass number five?”
The first woman chortles. “My husband is about to find out!”
They hoot and cackle, and it’s easier to watch them than to sit back in my seat and face the man I just sprayed bad wine all over, and talked about rimming with.
But I have to.
Settled back in my seat, we catch each other’s gaze. He’s cleaned up and the hostess has removed the wet napkins, replaced them with clean ones, and a fresh bottle of Champagne is being decanted as I say, “Sorry about all that ass talk.”
“I like ass talk.”
The ma?tre d' appears with a third glass, pours a tiny sip, and approves, pouring some for Case. “If the gentleman pleases?”
He takes a sip, nods, and looks at me. “Sarah?”
I try a sip from my newly poured glass. It’s normal.
We give our thanks, and the ma?tre d' assures us that dinner is on the house. I look at the menu with renewed gusto.
“Let me guess,” Case says with a laugh. “ Now you’re getting lobster and filet.”
“I was getting that no matter what,” I lie.
“Most buttoned-up women order a chicken dish on the first date,” he observes. “That’s the safe choice.”
“You’ve had enough dates to track a pattern?”
He shrugs. I stop asking questions.
The fountain climaxes again and again and again, as if daring me to top it.
I really am ordering the lobster and filet. Screw this.
The server comes over, rattles off a long list of specials with words like “reduced sauce” and “chef’s garden shiitake” and “personally rimmed with a fig sauce.”
Okay, not that last one.
I order the surf and turf. Case does the same, whispering something to the server that makes her nod discreetly.
“What was that about?”
“I told her they didn’t need to comp dinner. The wine was enough.”
“You know they will totally comp dinner.”
“Sure. But this way, I look like a nice guy.”
“You are a nice guy.”
“How do you know?”
“I – ” He’s got me there. How do I know?
Slot B knows.
Slot B starts sending me Morse code signals in pulse form.
My clit spells out G-E-T-D-I-N-N-E-R-T-O-G-O. Take him to bed. Try rimming for the first time.
I look down at my lap and nearly hiss, “Shut up” about that last one, but catch myself. I haven’t had enough wine to start talking to my pussy.
Not in public, at least.
How much wine does it take before I start having conversations with my genitals? I assume more than three glasses.
And just like that, I decide this date is a one-glass occasion. I can’t find courage in a bottle. If I’m going to unclench and explore the world, it has to be on my terms.
No fermented grape reinforcements to overcome my boring fears.
This man in front of me unlocks feelings I’ve held at bay for years. He makes me want to go on journeys with him. Playful, skin-filled, mouth-covered journeys. If sex is play for grownups, then I want all the playdates with him. Every damn one.
Unrestrained.
“I don’t know you’re a nice guy. It’s just a gut feeling,” I reply to Case, who tilts his head like he’s contemplating that.
“You’re right.”
“A bad guy would say that to fool me into thinking he’s a nice guy.”
“A bad guy would have ditched you at the table a long time ago.”
“How would you know?”
“I know bad guys,” he says with a glowering expression I wasn’t expecting.
“I know a few myself,” I mutter before drinking more of my wine.
“Ex-boyfriends?”
“The word ‘boyfriend’ might be a bit much. How about ‘friends who committed to Slot B but not to the rest of me?”
“Slot B?”
Oops.
“That’s a nickname.”
“For your…” He leans across the table and looks in my lap.
“Yes.”
“How far into the alphabet do your slots go?”
“That depends entirely on what you intend to put inside my slots.”
“Tell me there’s a slot for D.”
“I think you’ve already mastered that slot, kind sir.”
He gives me an alluring leer. “Is this a negotiation, Ms. Gorenta?”
“You made it sound like an inventory. If you don’t know all the spaces on a woman’s body that could be counted, then we have a problem.”
“Do we? I wouldn’t call it a problem.”
“What would you call it, then?”
“A journey.”
Someone clears their throat, a polite gesture designed to pretend they didn’t hear our sex talk, and suddenly two plates of drizzled vegetables, more colorful than a rainbow cake during Pride Month, appear before us.
The scent is heavenly, a roasted spice rainbow for my nose, and soon, we’re tasting the grilled fennel with a balsamic reduction over it, roasted tomatoes and root vegetables balanced by shaved parmesan and watermelon radish.
It’s a fancy appetizer.
And I love it.
More than the food, though, I love the company.
As we talk, he’s gentlemanly but edgy, with enough layers that I’m intrigued. When I started writing my piece on Chakroga123, I knew who Casey Willingham was. Owner of seven successful Chakroga123 studios throughout Boston, Cambridge, and the MetroWest area, he’s been featured in Boston Magazine , gets loads of Instagram and TikTok love when he attends charity events (all of them focused on cancer), and there’s a glorious picture of him at Fenway Park in Red Sox gear, handing a little boy a rogue foul ball that he caught with a jump worthy of a basketball player.
Lucky me.
One of Boston’s “Bachelors to Keep Your Eye On,” he’s turning out to be witty, outrageously interesting, and I already know the topography of his dick.
That’s way more than I’ve ever known about anyone I’ve written about.
And thank GOD, because I used to cover zoning and planning board meetings in my hometown. You really, really don’t want to have to even think about those committee members even having genitals.
“You went to UMASS, didn’t you?” he asks. “Or Smith?”
“Nice try. Columbia, actually.”
Eyebrows rise. He’s impressed. I’m instantly self-conscious.
"What about you?"
"Penn State."
"Are you from Pennsylvania?"
"No. Central Massachusetts."
"Really? What town?"
"Harvard, but I only moved there when I was fifteen."
"England before that, I assume?"
"Yes." Peering at me, one eye slightly narrowed, he’s sizing me up. “I wouldn’t take you for a New York City resident.”
“I’m not. I’m from Becket.”
“Becket?”
“Town in the Berkshires.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Near Tanglewood.”
The dawning look everyone gets as they pretend to know where I’m talking about shines in his eyes. “I’ve never been to Tanglewood,” he confesses – as if it’s something to be ashamed of – just as the server appears with our main courses.
She gasps at his words.
Now I know why he says it so sheepishly.
“There’s nothing wrong with never having done something that other people have done,” I say loudly, shooting the server a look designed to make her shut up. “No one has done everything. We’re all inexperienced about something.”
“Like our one-night stand last night,” Case says evenly. “Your first.”
The server starts choking on her surprise.
“I didn’t mean that ,” I hiss to him through gritted teeth. “I meant that you’d never been to Tanglewood.”
“I know,” he says pleasantly, placing his napkin in his lap. “I just wanted point out that you were a one-night stand virgin until I came along, and I’m a Tanglewood virgin. Hopefully you’ll pop my cherry on that one.”
“Is – is there anything else I can get you?” the server asks with more grace than I could muster under the circumstances.
“A gag?” I joke.
Sultry and unabashed, he grins at me and says, “Oh, the ball gag is for dessert, Sarah, back at my place.” His foot touches mine, running up the curve of my calf. He’s slipped off his shoe, and his sock-covered toe slowly makes love to that sensitive spot behind my knee. A shiver runs across my skin, through my bloodstream, and suddenly, I want to fuck him under the table.
Now.
Gag or no gag.
The server gives us a little bow and leaves, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“We’re totally going to be talked about on Reddit tonight,” I whisper as I shift away from his foot. His foot chases me, sliding up past my knee, reaching a few inches closer along my inner thigh.
Jesus. How long are his legs?
And if he can do this to me with a single toe, what are his plans for the “dessert” at his apartment?
“Mmmm,” I moan as I take a bite of my steak, Case smiling with genuine pleasure at my pleasure. A guy who enjoys watching me enjoy myself is an instant turn-on.
Not that I need to be even more turned on. Can a clitoris explode from longing?
The visual on that makes me cringe because who wants to think about clit shrapnel? Lumberjack labia was a joke.
Not a condition.
I put down my fork on my remaining filet and redirect myself.
“Something wrong?” he asks, but I just sip my wine and smile, because sharing my crazy train of thought is the worst idea ever when it comes to dating. I’ve learned that most people don’t understand how I can have one thought that connects to a tiny portion of another, that then springs to a new thought, that branches out to three more connected ideas, and suddenly I go from talking about Tanglewood to thinking about clitbombs.
“Nothing at all. Delicious,” I reply, nudging my chin toward his plate. “And yours?”
“Haven’t taken a bite yet. Lovely watching you smile and moan as you eat. I’ve heard that moan before,” he says with a sly look that makes my bones turn to liquid. “Can’t wait to hear it again in bed.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to wait for very long.”
He takes his fork and knife and holds them in that European way, the kind that makes me feel like a preschooler learning to use utensils. I was raised in a home where we ate food that rarely required a fork. Who needs to learn technique and table manners for boxed Mac 'n Cheese, canned soup, and frozen pizzas?
Not complaining. My mother did what she could as a single mom, and it’s not like that’s all we ever ate. But we had one steak knife we traded off, or Mom just cut everything up before serving.
Simpler that way.
My first invitation to a faculty member’s home when I was a freshman at Columbia was culture shock, to say the least. I was so nervous and felt so stupid I nearly puked all over the dinner plate, and I now realize I used the dessert spoon for my soup.
“You look like you’re deep in memory,” Case says as he starts his second bite. A discreet chewer, he sips water between morsels, setting his fork and knife down to give me his full attention.
“I am. You’re very perceptive.”
“Your eyes glazed over and your shoulders slumped. That’s a pretty universal sign.”
“Is it? Good to know.”
“What are you remembering?”
I pause, because it would be so easy to tell him the truth. Why would it be so easy? Dates don’t go like this. Men don’t fall into my lap like this, clicking so well with me. Normally, my experience on the romance market is more fraught with conflict.
With disappointment.
With realizing there’s no way I’ll get along with my date unless I change myself to be who he wants me to be.
Case? Case doesn’t expect any of that.
He’s just here, fully present, enjoying our conversation.
Enjoying the real me.
Other than the fact that I’m lying to him about the exposé. Let’s ignore that for a bit. Compartmentalization can be a wonderful superpower.
“I’m remembering how awkward I was the first time I was invited to a faculty member’s home for a dinner,” I admit, reveling in the free feeling as my chest lifts and opens up, like breaking the surface of a deep lake as you come up for air.
Have I been holding my breath?
Case looks at the fork before him. “This restaurant reminds you of that?”
“The way you hold your utensils does.”
Frowning at his own hands, his expression changes comically as he understands my meaning. Amused eyes meet mine.
“You were raised by the uncouth?” His accent turns positively royal as he adjusts his fork in his hand, turning it into a stabbing utensil, spearing a piece of steak and shoving it in his mouth with a growl.
I know he’s joking, but now I’m even hornier.
“I – wasn’t raised to know a damn thing about a faculty dinner. When they asked me if I wanted merlot or pinot noir I thought they were talking about cheese .”
“Oh, dear.” Dimples appear as my story continues, even the way he swallows adorable.
“The tipoff for me was when I asked about crackers and the caterer – who I thought was my professor’s daughter – gave me a look that made me instantly backpedal. She brought me merlot.”
“At least you got to try a good red wine.”
“Have you ever had red wine for the first time at a fancy event where you have no idea how to act? It tasted like someone mixed blood with iron shavings.”
“Sounds like a cocktail for an anemic vampire.”
“Sure did taste like one.”
The way he licks his lips when he smiles at me has my stomach full of butterflies. Oh, I really like this man.
Really, really like him.
As he takes another bite, I watch his hands. So elegant. So confident. Case moves through the world with a centeredness I admire.
Which means I should tell him, right? Confess what’s really going on behind the scenes. Why I attend classes at Chakroga123. What the owner of his company is likely up to.
And yet… it’ll ruin everything if I do.