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“Thanks.”

We stare at each other across the fence. I hate that I’m enjoying this.

“I’m Damian Leeds.”

Of course, he is.

A man who looks like that couldn't possibly be named Bob.

“Well, Mr. Leeds, you've been misinformed.”

“About?”

“My willingness to sell.”

His wings shift behind him.

“I assure you, everyone has a price.”

Oh, I don't like that. Maybe because I've spent my entire life being measured.

Not powerful enough.

Not talented enough.

Not thin enough for my grandmother.

Not enough period.

And now this arrogant, half-naked stranger looks at the first thing in my life that is entirely mine and assumes he can slap a dollar amount on it.

“No.”

His brow furrows.

“No?”

“No.”

“I don't think you understand what I'm offering.”

“I don't think you understand what I'm saying.”

His tail lashes once in annoyance. I smile wider.

“I'm. Not. Selling.”

His eyes darken.

“Surely you don't mean to live here.”

His gaze drops again. This time it travels over all of me. My stomach tightens. Suddenly I’m aware of every curve beneath my clothes.

Every inch of soft belly.

Every bite of the bagel sandwich I eat on the drive here.

Then I mentally slap myself.