An “I’m sorry” stumbles out of my mouth. “Sorry?” The word vibrates through my skin. “Because.” My knees are buckling, so I lock them. I still feel like I might lose my bearings, so I blindly reach up. Find Lowe’s shoulder. Grasp it for dear life. “I know you don’t like my scent.” “I fucking love your scent.”
HOW DOESN'T SHE GET IT
