He wiped my scraped shin with the antiseptic wipe, and I dug my fingernails into his shoulder with a wince. It burned worse than acetone on a paper cut. “Right. You’d go for something Victorian. Lots of arches, iron railings, church-like steeply pitched rooftop.”
That was freakishly accurate. “Are you able to read people’s minds? Like that Mel Gibson rom-com? Is that, like, a medical condition?”
“Absolutely not.” He patted my shin clean of blood and dirt with the tenderness of a loving parent, and I dug my nails deeper into those jacked-up deltoids, this time not because it hurt but because I hadn’t touched a man in years and was extremely deprived. “I make it a point not to read anything. Reading might lead to opening my horizons. I like ’em narrow and flat.”
“You’re not as bad as peop
