“Let me guess? You’re going to Harvard or Stanford or Oxford or something. Old money, fancy school.” Church doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he just gives me another one of those blinding smiles, the ones he learned from his family. “Maybe. Why? Is that where you want to go? As husband and wife, we should probably attend the same university.” I grab one of his discarded, fancy-pants pillows, and smack him with it. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
