VANESSA BELMONT JANG
The second the sliding door clicked shut, sealing Steve the Iguana's scaly ass outside where he belonged, my knees gave out. I collapsed onto the nearest couch—which, admittedly, still smelled faintly of saltwater and reptile—and let out a groan that had been building since the moment that creature stole my very expensive lingerie.
Nathan flopped down beside me, his arm immediately curling around my waist like he was afraid I'd dissolve into hysterics if he didn't anchor me. (He wasn't wrong.) His shirt was rumpled, his hair was a disaster, and there was a suspicious green smudge on his elbow that I really hoped wasn't iguana-related.
Ollie, still vibrating with adrenaline, clapped his hands together. "Okay, so that was awesome."
Leo, who looked like he'd aged ten years in the last ten minutes, dragged a hand down his face. "Ollie. Sweetheart. Light of my life. No."
"But Steve—"
