“No, man,” I blew out a laugh. “I mean a chick who doesn’t do shit for you unless you do shit for her.” “That sounds like a lot of work,” he said thoughtfully. “The sweetest fruit is the one you pick yourself,” I said and he raised an eyebrow at me. “Did you write that poetry just for me, baby?” I shrugged out of his hold, ramming my shoulder into his and we both laughed. “Shut the fuck up.” “Noted.” He grinned.
