Fucking hell.
This isn’t some fucking paranormal romance novel.
I shake my head to clear it.
“You look like shit, Hotshot.”
“Good morning to you too.”
I glance at the clock in the living room to check the time.
Nine-oh-seven.
My body immediately files a formal complaint. Way too early for someone who fell asleep at dawn. At least I don’t have to go walk the dogs for another three hours.
Casey’s phone buzzes.
Then buzzes again.
And again.
He glances down at the screen before pocketing it.
I catch a glimpse of a heart emoji before it disappears.
Of course.
The man nearly gets strangled to death and still somehow has women texting him before breakfast.
“You know,” I say, “most people wait at least twenty-four hours after a near-death experience before resuming their manwhore activities.”
Casey snorts.
“Manwhore?”
“Manwhore.”
“That seems harsh.”
“Says the guy who treats relationships like free samples at Costco.”
For a second, I expect him to fire back.
Tell me I’m jealous.
Ask if I’m taking applications.
Something.
Instead, something flickers across his face.
But it’s gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
Huh.
I open my mouth to ask what that was about, but a loud knock rattles the front door.
Both of us jump.
