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The man standing in front of me, whom I assume is Carter Morgan III, looks like the kind of person who would rob Carter Morgan III at gunpoint.
“You look twelve, or something.” “And you look like someone who breaks kneecaps for the mafia,” he retorts.
I don’t want to argue about money. I want to keep enjoying the day and not have him worry about how he’s going to afford it. I want to be invited to more days like this, and if I have to buy that privilege, so be it.
No offense to hockey or anything, but my interest in the sport starts and ends with you.”
“I don’t know, I just…he felt right, is all.” I blush as I say this, the tips of my ears burning. There’s no better way to explain it, though. Carter was inevitable.
“Jesus, no, I mean yes, of course I’ve liked you. What I meant is that I just realized that I like you. Like, I want to kiss you. And we should have sex, sometime.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you were bad at kissing,” he muses, not letting go of my hand. “That just means we get to practice more.”
“I really like you, Carter Morgan. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anybody before.”
