“You're still afraid of me,” he says, but not like he's angry, more like that's expected. “I'm not,” I protest, but maybe I am. Just a little. “But it would be the ultimate prank, to draw me in, and then finish me off after I already, you know, sort of like you guys and stuff.” “Sort of?” Church asks, and then he leans down and hovers his lips just above mine, that lilac and rosemary scent we share mingling in the cool air. His breath is minty and fresh, and I realize that as much coffee as he drinks, he never has coffee breath. Never. See, he really is perfect. Almost too perfect though,
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