My Dad's Bestfriend
His tone was mocking, precise.
"Guess what? I don't give a fuck about your opinion," I snapped, though a small, stubborn smile tugged at my lips. And he laughed. Actual laughter—Alexander Grayson laughing—and for some reason, it felt monumental. The sound was effortless, magnetic, and it should have annoyed me—but it didn't.
"You're funny," he said.
I blinked. Funny? I was clearly roasting him.
"Oh really? Then your humor's clearly broken, because I wasn't trying to be funny."
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