3
Angela, Twenty-Four Hours Later
“I’m telling you, Casey, I can’t do it.” I’d been hiding in the laundry room for ten minutes at least, my cell phone making my palm sweat. The phone battery made me hot. Plus the heat from the dryers. It was not the thought of going to that hot hunk of an alien’s suite again, even if it was to clean his toilet bowl.
OMG. I seriously could not do it.
Casey, my best friend in the world since middle school, would normally be in town offering me stellar advice. Instead he was in Paris at some stupid fashion conference looking at shoes and handbags and clothes I hadn’t been able to fit into since about third grade. I hated him and his posh job. Paris. While I stood in the bowels of a hotel, the humidity making my hair frizz.
“Listen to me, girlfriend,” he
