“Twenty-five? You’re a baby!” “I am not. Your birthday’s in February, so you’re not even three—” I squeeze my lips together as the implication behind my words sinks in. Carter grins triumphantly. “Oh shit.” “You Googled the fuck out of me, Miss Parker.” “No.” Obviously. Call it morbid curiosity. “What else did you find?” Other than confirmation that his smile is permanently dazzling and dimple-popping? “That you really like women.”
