The Wingman (Vancouver Storm, #3)

by Stephanie Archer

“Got your claws in her already, Dr. Evil?” She stiffens. “Who let you out of the care home, Grandfather?” His features harden and his gaze drops to her feet, lingering. “Those aren’t office appropriate.” “That’s rich from someone with four teeth.”

I love her, I realize. I’ve loved her for years. Maybe since she walked into English class that first week of university, or the first conversation we had about The Northern Sword, or the first time I opened my blinds and screamed at the weird gnome peering into the window while she collapsed on my bed, laughing her ass off. Or maybe I fell a little in love with her every time I saw her, every time we laughed together or texted or hugged, until I was at full capacity and head over fucking heels for her.