“The Zoey Ellis package is a pretty good one, I won’t lie,” I tell him, flashing him a playfully boastful smirk. “Sure is,” Carter says, wrapping an arm around me, not appearing to like Cartwright’s praise. “And all mine.” “Nope. Not yours,” I remind him, but don’t bother shrugging off his arm. I like it where it is. “It’s all mine,” he assures the guys, who nod like they understand, and my word means nothing.
