“Oh my God. This is a mess. I’m a mess. I’m a boring former kindergarten teacher who can’t even talk about an Amish romance without blushing. How do I expect my hot, muscly neighbor—with dimples that make me feel like melted butter—to even give me a second glance? I can’t. Because I’m pathetic. And now I want butter. I want a big old buttery sculpture of Princess Kay of the Milky Way sitting on my table now. I would eat her face right off.”
