A Groom of One's Own (Appies, #3)

by Emma St. Clair

I tell myself not to ogle. Even though they’re absolutely ogle-worthy. Ogle-able. Ogle-icious. Anyway. No ogling. Nogling.

Can I help it if the man makes me shine brighter? Feel lighter? And blush like a schoolgirl with a crush?

It’s simple biology. My amygdala sent a panicked S.O.S. to my hypothalamus, telling it we’re in grave danger. Because clearly my amygdala is a little dramatic. My hypothalamus responded instantly with “sir, yes sir” and passed orders down to my adrenal glands. And they deployed hormone soldiers like cortisol, adrenaline, and a handful of others, who didn’t march but RAN into battle. A battle I’m now losing because of those very soldiers.

I slide down in my chair, wishing my bones would melt so I could puddle under the table and away from this conversation.

Is magical cleavage licorice a thing?