“Oh,” I said without thinking. “You’re beautiful.” His expressive brows slammed down over those clear eyes. “A man is not beautiful.” “You are,” I insisted. “Not like someone from a Renaissance painting. Like, well, like Dante’s angels, maybe.” “Nothing about me is heavenly,” he argued again, crossing his arms defensively, but there was a tiny curl in his mouth that said he was enjoying this. Enjoying me.
