The man’s adrenaline-soaked instincts overrode every other primal urge in his body—like his subconscious had been trained for this very scenario.
I braced myself for not much more than a gossip fest, where the only thing the piece offered was a former restaurant worker “dishing the dirt” on the celebrities and bigwigs he brushed shoulders with.
... I still could feel that cursed imposter syndrome setting up camp in my gut, a disruptive, loud-as-shit tenant, if there ever was one.
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