With each step toward the bedroom, my ire grew.
“Good girls get to come."
Asshole.
Son of a b***h.
Jerk.
I was running out of names to call Sterling Sparrow. Maybe there was an online thesaurus for insulting personal pronouns. I would add checking on that to my list of things to do.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Never in my entire life had I met anyone as exasperating, infuriating, or as maddening as Sterling Sparrow. He set off my last nerve, pushing me like I'd never been pushed. The way he'd stared at me when he'd first entered the kitchen made me feel as though he needed me. He'd done something—something I would probably never know—and I was his relief or maybe reward. I wasn't sure exactly what I was, other than in that moment I believed that he saw me in the way a person saw the one he
