My Crazy Hot Interstellar Affair

The first sign of trouble came when the elevator doors of Andie Bank's Hollywood high-rise dinged open, and a cloud of baking snickerdoodles crept in like a nebulous monster in a low-budget movie.

Maybe it wasn't normal to experience gut-twisting dread when confronted with such a sugary, buttery aroma, but in Andie's case, her carefully constructed lie—maintained without a glitch for three months—had crumbled like a stale cookie. Because the only person who ever baked in Andie's kitchen was her best friend and adoptive sister, Sterling Champagne.

The target of Andie's deception. Shit, she knows.

A flurry of possible excuses, explanations, and half-truths ran through Andie's head, but Sterling would see through them all. Sweat trickled down Andie's back, and her sports bra clung to her like a Spandex python. She stepped out of the elevator, mostly out of habit. That's what someone usually did when elevator doors opened. Right?

But a part of her contemplated going back down and taking another long run. Perhaps somewhere further this time, like to a far-off galaxy, or better yet, a nice, quiet little black hole. Anything to avoid confronting Sterling.