June

I sigh for the thirteenth time, raising my head over my shoulder to glance at Mr. Grande through the blinds. Thank God he didn’t shut them.

He yelled, alright. Told me never to make coffee for him again.

That was the plan — and technically, it worked, except for one tiny, stupid problem.

Was this plan working for me or against me?

Because I’m supposed to feel smug, satisfied, maybe even a little triumphant at his discomfort, but instead?

I’m… stupidly turned on, by his just ...