"When I was fourteen, he shot my boyfriend Vince in the leg," Emilie replied casually, not even attempting to conceal her smirk. She did warn him. Even if it was only about sixty seconds before her dad forced his way into the room.

"Anyway, you read--" She sighed sharply. Of course. Of course he was going to ask. Only rich kids had two fucking kitchens, a yacht, and a summer house in the Hamptons. "Don't even get me started. You ready?"