“God, I’m so tired,” he moans. “Rough day of sightseeing and drinking?” He laughs, one hand reaching up and coming in for a heavy landing on my forearm. “That isn’t what I mean.” His hair has fallen over one eye, and I’m so tempted to move it aside. For comfort, of course. I reach out, carefully sweeping the hair across his forehead, and he looks up at me with such intensity that I freeze with my fingers near his temple. “What do you mean, then?” I ask quietly. He doesn’t break eye contact. Not even for a breath. “It’s so exhausting pretending to hate you.” This pulls me up short, and—even
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