“Grovels start with flowers.” I frown at the roses in his hands. They’re blood red and confusing. Rafe takes advantage of my disbelief by sliding me to the side and strolling into my apartment. “According to Google, anyway,” he continues, before disappearing into my kitchen. “But Google also thinks I’m thirty-eight and own a Rottweiler named Cookie, so who really knows?” I follow him in and hover awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. He sets the roses down and opens cupboards and drawers like he owns the place. “Do you have a vase?” “What?” He glances at me, amused. “For the flowers.” “Um, no?”
...more
