“Row was always the dark and moody type.” Mom let out a dreamy giggle. “It’s part of his charm. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.” “What, murder-y?” I squeezed one eye shut, scrunching my nose. “Alpha-y. It’s all about cinnamon rolls and consent these days.” “Yeah. Consent. So gross, right?” I pinned her with a pointed look. Mom laughed. “Oh, you know what I mean.”
