“Screw that. I wasn’t pitchy, you ass,” she says, her eyes glaring a challenge. She wins, of course. She always wins. I’d paint my whole damned house pink, and run up the white flag if she asked, she has me so wrapped around her finger.

“No, you weren’t pitchy. You were perfect,” I say, kissing her quickly one more time before I have to rejoin my team.

“I’m not perfect, Nate. I’m a work-in-progress. But this is me…this is me, trying,” she says, our fingers dropping apart as I back away. I smile and turn, just letting her think she’s right. But she’s already perfect. She was perfect the moment I laid eyes on her—perfect for me.

THE END