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It’s his crazy look. The one he gets right before he gets unhinged. Dripping suds onto the floor, I point my finger at him. “Don’t you dare stand in my kitchen glaring at me after breaking in uninvited! Get out!” “No.” “What? What do you mean no?” “Just what I said.” He takes a step toward me. He’s wearing tight black jeans and a tight black T-shirt. Muscles bulge out all over the place. Tattoos swim in my vision. Less forcefully, I say, “Get out.” “You’re not listening, Pink.” He shakes his head, tutting. “You just. Don’t. Listen.” He takes another step toward me, then another, then he’s standing an arm’s length away, staring down at me in all his blistering masculinity. I swallow, shrinking back against the sink. I whisper, “I want you to go now.” “It’s interesting,” he says, ga
- Writer
