I finally turn my head to look at him. He’s very close, and like before, I can’t decide if I’m annoyed or intrigued—or something else entirely. “Are we going to argue over semantics again, Quint?” His eyes hold mine, gleaming in the flickering light. “If it pleases you.” My heart gives a little stutter. I have to look back at the page because I don’t know what to do with it. I feel flushed and uncertain and off-balance, and I haven’t felt like this since . . . I don’t know when.
“if it pleases you” QUINT PLEASE THE WAY YOU HAVE BECOME A FLIRT OUT OF NO WHERE AND I CANT HANDLE IT
