“How is it that you always know the exact right stupid romance novel thing to say?” I asked, leaning up to kiss him. He smiled against my lips. When I pulled back, he said, “I was a student of Shakespeare centuries before the romance novel was even dreamt. Be glad I do not leave you horrible poetry on your pillow, wrapped securely around the bodies of dead rats.” “Cait Sidhe romance,” I said, and laughed. “It’s definitely different.”
