“You,” she growls, and it’s such a cute attempt at being all aggressive and feisty that I grab her hand in mine and press a kiss to her palm. Then murmur, “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you want to throw me out of the plane right now?” Her nose scrunches in deliberation. “Twelve.” She tugs on her captured hand to no avail. “I’m at a twelve, which is the equivalent of someone’s mood after being force-fed anything you’ve cooked for at least three days in a row.”
