Rose’s lips tighten at the “man-hating” line. That one did sting her. I almost regret adding it in my explanation. “You’re a conceited asshole,” she tells me. “You love me.” She shakes her head but her lips lift. “Stop.” “Stop what?” “Being right.” She groans and leans back against the couch in a huff. “I hate that we’re all so worked up over it and you say a few words, and now everything makes sense again.”
