“So, what’s your type?” he asked, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. His self-satisfied smile was infuriating. Damn him for getting me all hot and bothered. I thought while staring into my second drink. “Tall. Tan. Tattooed. Dark hair.” Silas. Roland. I made an internal decision not to think of who else was my type, whose appearance was different from that of the two Otacian men.
