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With a tired huff, I shove my key into the lock and shoulder my front door open. I’m so ready for a glass of wine, my just big enough tub, and some Witcher. Lord knows I need a healthy dose of Henry Cavill in my life to remind me why I shouldn’t look into becoming a lesbian.
“I admit that he’s hot, fuck, even Helen Keller could see that much. And yes, he’s probably packin’, not that I’ve looked,” I quickly insert. “But you know how weird I am about trust and intimacy. Like, I at least have to know someone and think they’re a good person before I get all up on that dick,” I remind him.
“Why on earth did you tackle me?” he defends, turning this around on me. Typical. “I was saving you,” I point out incredulously. “From a skunk that can’t even spray?” he counters ungratefully. “I didn’t know that at the time, you ass. It twerked in my direction, and I got the fuck out of the way. I didn’t stop and examine its equipment.” “Gibson does not twerk.” “Hate to break it to you, Rogan, but he sure as hell does.”
I probably look like some desperate thot who just keeps throwing myself at him. My face is on fire with mortification.
