And then he saw his own name, Renaldo, printed on her cup. His eyes lit up. “Well, well, well,” he said, closing the remaining inches between them until their shoulders touched. He smiled down at her, the young, beautiful fawn. “Looks like my lucky day.” He sounds like a serial killer. Furthermore, what two people stand there murmuring delightedly about their drinks in the pickup line at a coffee shop? Illogical.
IM DYING
