No

You and Stephanie both shake your heads, politely declining the offer.

Marsha gives a sheepish little laugh. “Mind if I do? I’m a little sore… could use it.”

Same old Marsha.

She disappears into the kitchen. You hear the clink of a shot glass, the splash of vodka, the hiss of a can opening as she mixes herself something strong. Then her voice floats back: “Just gonna change real quick, make yourselves at home. Two minutes!”

“Marsha, we’re on a schedule,” you call, tapping your nails on the table. “Hurry up.”

“Of course! Two minutes!”

Quick footsteps thud up the stairs. Exactly 118 seconds later she’s back, padding into the living room in a sheer black sports bra nipples faintly visible through the fabric and high-waisted leggings that hug every curve like they were painted on. The outline of a fresh bruise peeks above the waistband; she’s moving gingerly, but the outfit screams look at me.

“Sorry,” she says, sliding into the chair with a wince she tries to hide. “Needed something more comfortable. I’m ready now.” She folds her hands on the table, takes a steadying sip of her drink, and fixes her gaze on the contract. “Let’s do this.”