“Go home. I’m not impressed by … by anything about you.” “No? Then why are your cheeks so pink?” “They’re not.” I press my palms to my damp face. I glance up. Shit. Our gazes meet in the mirror. My eyes constrict into tiny slits at his reflection, and he always wears an expression like he’s ruminating about something I just said or did. “Anna, they’ve been pink since I removed my shirt halfway through climbing all the routes.” He shrugs. “Don’t be embarrassed. If you took off your shirt, I’d overheat too.”
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