As the microwave hummed behind me, a peculiar expression shadowed his chiseled face. “You don’t have to call me sir, Ms. Sanders.” Leaning back against the counter, I asked, “What would you rather I call you?” “Dominic or Mr. Reed. Whichever you prefer.” “What if I prefer sir?” The pointed look he gave me from across the room peeled a stupid grin up my face. “Kidding,” I quipped. Kind of.
