“It’s ok, I’m not going to start calling you my boyfriend or anything. Or expecting you to be any less grumpy.” I grunt into my mug. “Good, because I’m not going to be.” “Good,” he says. “Good.” He’s grinning far too cheerfully. “Good.” He raises his eyebrows at me and swirls his mug. “Because I like my guys like I like my coffee, dark, bitter, and—no wait, that doesn’t work. I like my coffee sweet as hell.”
