His head tilted in amusement. “Now who’s the suspicious one? A rose is just a rose, Faythe.” She didn’t react to his regurgitation of her own words. She lifted her chin instead, determined not to yield victory. “A rose is too pretty for you. You’re more like a blossomless thornbush,” she sneered. His smile grew wider. “Because you think I’m dangerous?” “Because you’re a prick.”
