“Dominic, you’re not my winning lottery ticket. This can’t be based on you being some kind of benefactor to poor little old me.” She probably didn’t mean it in the way I took it, but I was looking to stay pissed off. “I’m so sorry you don’t think I’m a prize,” I snapped. “Stop deliberately misunderstanding me,” she said. “You know damn well I meant that I don’t consider you to be my very own ATM. I don’t want your money. I want you. I want an us. And for there to be an us, I want a say.”
