MACEY

“Come on, Mace… you can’t be serious.”

Samantha’s voice had that familiar tone, that combination of disbelief and judgment that she always carried. She was sitting cross-legged on my couch, her arms crossed over her chest as if I had just announced I planned to quit my job and move to a monastery in Tibet.

“I thought it was just a fling,” she continued, her words sharp. “I was literally trying to set you up with one of my clients. He’s twenty-seven, an architect, ...