“For the love of God, Beau, stop,” I beg on a hitching sob. Is that snot coming out of my nose? Why is being sad so disgusting? “I can’t get this”—sniff, sob—“under control”—sob, wail, cry—“while you’re being nice.” His pretty eyes roll up in exasperation. “You want me to be mean to you?” I wipe uselessly at my traitorous eyes again. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” Beau scrubs a long-suffering hand over his too-tempting face, then he scowls. “Your hair is a mess and your breath smells like something died in your throat. Happy now?” I stare at him. “Why would you say that?” I keen, as a
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