“You’re cute when you’re mad.” He taps the toe of my sneaker with his before sipping his coffee. I glare at him, unsure if I’m angry because he doesn’t like my book or because I’m attracted to him despite his terrible taste in books. “I’m not cute when I’m mad.” “Fine. Let’s go with fuckable again. You look fuckable when you’re mad.” I will not smile. Nope. There’s no way I’m taking the bait.
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