“I can do a jig for you. Sing a song about how blessed I am to have you walk into my room. Or would you rather I throw you up against the wall and passionately defile you?” I raise a brow at her and her eyes narrow. “You don’t have to be a dick, Brock.” I spit out my toothpaste, rinse my mouth, and then ask her, “What else do you want from me, Stella?” You’ve taken my heart.
