“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 raw, hacking sob shakes my whole body. Beau straightens off the door, looking nothing short of panicked. “No—no, no, no. I was
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