“Am I your My Fair Lady?” “Fable,” he says, gentle but firm too. “Why would you say that?” I frown, then look around his office, pointing to the window overlooking the stadium that he owns. “We don’t live in the same world. Your aunt has a stylist named Arbor who serves Veuve Clicquot. She’s sending a fancy car. And I made you a thank-you ornament from yarn,” I blurt out, and his eyes widen at the last point, but I keep going. “And I spilled Christmas glitter dicks on you, and I live in a tiny apartment and—”
