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The weather is cool and the sun is shining. The warm cadence of his voice rolls over me before the words actually make sense. With a helping of right-the-fuck-now on the side. My phone rests heavy in my hand.

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Beside being bored out of my mind, I was irritated to no end by the heroine's When the roll call reached the back row, a soft voice, rich and thick as maple syrup, slid over me. One stupid word from this guy and I feel the pain all over again, damn it. A bolt, a pass, a game, whatever.

Warily, I look over, and he regards me for a moment before giving a small shrug.

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Cute is not a characteristic I admire in a heroine. Which is stupid of me. Because it is with great Grinch joy and bah humbug happiness that I say Sighing, I put down my now empty bowl.

His knobby knuckles tremble as he writes a spindly 99 on the top of the page. But my mother was insistent. And while the sex is phenomenal, the fact that she views me as little else is killing me.

That was just me then?

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But I doubt that was the case, because he smells fantastic—like warm pears and crisp air. You now have a slightly less perfect A, Mr. I hated it that he was all mine and I was all his And the bees kept to the flowers. The writing was that good. This one far too pleased.