Before I can hook it, however, the door falls open and the unexpected loss of cranial support sends me lurching clumsily off balance. Being (much to my mother’s chagrin) a ballet school dropout at the age of four, I naturally fail to find my footing and end up sprawled on ...
“’Cause if it’s PMS, tell me now,” I say, “and I’ll bail. Hell, there are some months when I can’t even stand myself.” A small grin creases his mouth. “I’m not used to doing favors,” he says. “And I’m also not used to”—he pauses—“not used to finding that I enjoy them.” &nb...