What the actual fuck?
They look like fantasy men.
Like, theyreallydo. They’re not regular men. I know those. I mean the just-stepped-out-of-a-romance-book kind. The ones that show up on book covers holding a sword they have no reason to own. Like they’ve got some war to be sad about or something.
I own those books. I paid real money for those books because of those covers.
I have a type.
That type is fictional.
And fictional is not supposed to be standing in my living room!
Erik was bad enough. But this? This is too much sexy just… everywhere.
And now my brain wants to know more.
I just can’t leave it alone can I?
The one by the window has bronze skin, dark curls and an easy face and looks — normal. Approachable. Like he’d be fun at a party.
Yeah… right.
There is no normal in this group. The normal one is the trap. The normal one is how they get you.
The one closest to me with the shaved head, intense eyes, is covered — neck, arms, all of it — in ink, and there’s a flash of metal when he talks.
You cannot be serious right now.
Fantasy men definitely do not have tongue rings.
Oh, but what if they did?
Wait, no. Not thinking about that.
He’s looking right at me. Amused again — the smirk recovered fast, whatever that was at the handoff isn’t there now. Now, he looks like something funny is about to happen and he already knows what.
I’m not a fan. He hasn’t done anything, technically. It’s purely the face. It’s the face of a man who is nothing but trouble.
And the blond one—
No. We covered this. The faucet and I reached a verdict and the verdict was stress, and I am not reopening the case just because he holds kitchenware like it’s sacred.
“You got any of that white stuff?” the one with the shaved head says.
I freeze.
White stuff.
My brain, which has been having a day, takes those two words and drives them directly into the gutter.
White —
No.
He can’t mean — he’s a stranger — there’s no version where that’s the —
I’m staring. And now I’ve realized that I’m staring and there’s no getting out of this.
