“What time do you have to leave for brunch?” he asks, his voice so hopeful, his motives so purely guy, that I laugh. “Too soon to make time for what you have in mind,” I say, setting my coffee on the dresser and stepping into the leggings. “Besides, I’m a tiny bit sore.” “Sorry about that.” I snort and pull the top over my head. “See, your words say sorry, but your tone is just the tiniest bit self-satisfied.” He takes a sip of coffee. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
