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Not that I enjoy relentless harassment, but what’s a girl to do when the only constant presence during the last millennium of her life has been a guy who’s contractually mandated to murder her?
“Why are your hands so cold?” he asks, voice curt and gravelly. “Bad circulation,” I mumble, hurrying to bend my neck and search for the wound he mentioned. “Vitamin deficiencies. Gets chilly at night outside.” “You just gave me three different excuses.”
He’s as hot as the sun’s core. I must be the opposite, because he murmurs something about my icy limbs and how my poor body must have misplaced all its vitamins, and what can we do to find it again?
