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Bitter knocks on the guest-room door.
I am still using the funeral-home room some nights. Other nights I sleep upstairs with him. We have not officially moved in together, and I have not officially decided whether I want to.
Bitter has not asked every six minutes.
Again, sexy.
I open the door.
He is wearing the clean button-up.
Black, of course.
His cut is over it because apparently biker formal means adding leather.
He looks at me.
Then keeps looking.
“Words.”
He blinks. “Working on it.”
“Take your time.”
“Fuck.”
I smile.
“There.”
“You look…”
“Yes?”
His gaze moves over me.
“Like I might have to kill somebody.”
I cross my arms. “We discussed this.”
“Right.”
He clears his throat.
“You look beautiful.”
“Better.”
“Still might kill somebody.”
“Bitter.”
“Responsible choices.”
“Excellent.”
He holds out his hand.
