“Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but are you married?” “What?” His brows nearly fly off his forehead. “Are you married?” I repeat. “Or in a civil union? Maybe a domestic partnership?” “No, I’m not married or any of the above. Why?” I narrow my eyes on the gray sprinkling his temples. He looks like he’s in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. I drop my gaze to his ring finger. It’s bare, which means he must microwave puppies or something equally horrific because no one looks like him and stays single unless they’re hiding some serious flaws.
LMAO
