“Do you fancy him?” I slowly lifted my head up. “Are you kidding? Oh my gosh, you’re not.” I rubbed my temples and stood up straight. “I’ve spoken to James maybe three times. I don’t even like that he knows about us.” I waved my finger between us. “James is practically a saint. I’m not sure he’s ever lied in his life. A church confessional’s nightmare, truly.” I didn’t need Dorian to convince me otherwise. The last time James and I spoke, we had a fifteen-minute conversation about how scarves were his favorite piece of clothing. Saint was encrusted in the shape of his smile.
