“I get it,” I say. “You don’t like anyone tying you down—”

“One person can tie me down,” he cuts me off and then glances at me. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.” I sort of was. I unhinge my jaw, ridding whatever expression is causing him to overflow with satisfaction.

His grin has landed in James Franco territory. “I didn’t say that person was you.”

I blink. “You ever hear of that annoying six-foot-three guy with bleach-white hair who died in a Chicago stairwell?”

He laughs. “You mean the guy you have a hard-on for.”