Molly
I stare at him like he has finally lost whatever sanity he pretends to possess. Kneel? As if this is medieval times and I am about to pledge loyalty to a warlord with gray eyes and a bad attitude problem.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “Why?” he asks calmly. “You don’t want to?”
Why does he keep asking these questions?
It is not that I do not want to. That is the annoying part. I swallow and clear my throat. “It’s not that. I’ve just never knelt in front of anyone before.”
Which is true. I am not exactly the kneeling type. More like the rolling-my-eyes-and-walking-away type.
“But I’ll do it,” I add, before my brain can stop my mouth.
Great. Wonderful. Fantastic decision, Molly.
What is wrong with me? I should be arguing. I should be offended. I should be reminding
