So, news flash, readers. The guys in the books with the female grumps? They’re utterly into that, think it’s hot, and are actually the lucky ones. Read between the lines. You’ll findyes, thank you, anotherin every margin. And you might even figure out that those precious little grumpy girls?They’rethe patient and kind ones.
Because nine times out of ten, they’re vibing until their sorry, sappy male leads annoyingly wreck their peace.
Like I am.
With Morana.
Right now.
“Please may I come with you to the lovely sandwich haven?” I ask, following my darling grump out of my room as she tows my hamper toward the laundry room.
She grumbles, “Absolutely not.”
“Why? Is it because you hate me?”
“It is because you’d insist on calling it adate.”
Date. What a word.
And what a rude accusation.
I have never, ever, insisted on anything before in my life.
In case Morana doesn’t know, I simply do not possess the stamina for that.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and typedate definitioninto my search engine, then I recite, “Date, a social or romantic appointment or engagement.” I pull my gaze off the screen and pin it on Morana’s back, watching the swish of her darkhair. “Would you prefer I call it anappointment? I’m open to ‘engagement’ as well, but getting engaged on our first appointment would be a little fast, don’t you think?”
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”
Monumentally. “Is this amaybe?”
“It’s, very clearly, ano.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how important is consent to you? Where one isnot at alland ten isloads.”
Twisting, she regards me dryly, cute wrinkles between her brows.
Sorry. Notcute. What I meant was…
Hot.
“Zero, then?” I ask.
“Twelve thousand.”
“What a boring thing to say.” I cut my fingers through my shoulder-length hair.
“You think consent is boring?” she quips, practically repulsed.
I arch a brow at the silly lass. “You can’t expect me to believe I’m the only one who wants to be pushed into the wall and kissed in a fit of uncontrollable passion.”
“I am going to assume you’d only want that to happen with someone you’ve given consent to.”
I think for a moment. “Fair point.” I offer her my hands, palms open. “Behold. All the consent I have to provide. It is yours. Forever.” I point, at the wainscotting beside us. “And, look, a wall. I’m ready, mistress. Take me, I’m yours.”
Her head shakes; she keeps dragging my laundry hamper down the hall.
Stuffing my poor unpinned hands back in my pockets, I continue my survey. “How do you feel about stalking?”
