“So, what, they think I’m this charming, jaw-droppingly gorgeous American who was the love of your life?” A quirk of a smile. “Precisely. Not that you aren’t all those things, but—” Now the joke is getting out of hand. “It’s okay,” I say quickly, still reeling but trying to spare us both. “You don’t have to pump my ego.” “I’m not.” His brow furrows, as though he’s working out some complex equation. “Danika. It can’t be some mystery to you that you’re beautiful.”
