Let me in—” A horn blared as Bree belatedly hit the turn signal, having crossed three lanes of traffic in ten seconds. “Mass-hole!” she called, cheerful after having made her exit. She remembered Massachusetts drivers were absolutely insane, but she’d forgotten how fast the exit for Weston University appeared. It didn’t help she was late and the air conditioning in her crappy rental barely made a dent in the unseasonable May heat. Her dress felt sticky against her back, and her naturally wavy hair, already tangled from the five-hour flight from Seattle, was probably frizzy as hell. Too bad she didn’t have time to stop somewhere and freshen up. Her decision to attend her five-year college reunion had been made—as so many of her decisions were—last minute and with the minimum of planning. She didn’t actually have lodging lined up; all the hotels near Weston had been booked for reunion and commencement weekend for months, but she was certain one of her obliging classmates would have room on their hotel couch or, worst-case scenario, on the floor of the dorm room they’d booked out of nostalgia.
