Mate me at Hollywood
"Sure. Would you like me to hand-feed it to you too, Your Highness? Maybe polish your crown while I’m at it?"
Lena blinks, oblivious—or pretending to be. "A polished crown sounds quite nice, actually."
Mickie turns to me, deadpan. "If you don’t get your baby mama before I do, I can’t promise she’ll still have functioning taste buds after I buy her that risotto."
I step between them quickly, wondering how the hell my life became a fucking soap opera.
"Can we not do this right now? Because I guarantee there’s some sneaky-ass paparazzo crouched behind a bush, just dying to get an exclusive headline."