“I doubt he didn’t flirt with you,” Levi says, helping no one. Excuse me? I lift my brows at him. Has he changed sides? “The guy barely smiled.” “Like me?” he asks, all cool and collected, letting one of his own brows rise. “You must have a type, kitten.” My stomach flips, bottoming out, and I hold my breath, waiting for my mother to say something about that nickname. By some miracle, she doesn’t. Because, clearly, there are more important points to make. “Levi agrees with me.” “Levi is attempting to wiggle his way back into good graces.”
