"Who crowned you 'smart'? You sure do like to flatter yourself," Sylvan Cheney pinched her face.
She was like a little mole preparing for winter, nesting in his arms, occasionally rubbing her little head against him.
It was probably because his sweater was soft and his chest was warm that she looked utterly satisfied, with dimples on the corners of her mouth.
Her tone of voice became lazy, her eyes hazy with a deep, affectionate warmth.
"You're good at business, so tell me, what kind of shop should I open?"
"Why are you asking me?"
"Because you're impressive."
"In the future, you should discuss it with your boyfriend."
Jasmine Yale choked.
His words were like a bucket of cold water poured over her head; her heart felt chilled.
Her eyes shallow, a layer of thin mist quickly formed at the bottom of her eyes, large teardrops rolling around in her eye sockets.
But she held back, not letting the tears fall.
Her shoulders, involuntarily, trembled.
