Page 54 of Red Flag, Green Light

He’s been on the couch ever since.

I face my computer.

Sara: What if he researches how to pick locks and just barges in one day to push her into her couch and kiss her?

Rouge: Would you enjoy that?

I glance at Mars. Dark hair. Tall. Broad. Confidentlyinsecure. Kind. Insane.

I like his smile. Can’t say I’ve thought about what it tastes like before, though. If, however, he barged in one day, twisted my desk chair, leaned over it, and took my face in his hand, I am not certain I’d object. For research and curiosity’s sake, at least. The only guys I’ve ever dated have been…boring. And liars.

I’d greatly prefer a bad boy who tells me what he wants over a nice guy trying to beat around the bush as thoughwhat men wantis any secret.

Sara: I’d like it if he brought ropes, dragged her to her bedroom, and you know. Forced her to listen to him obsess over her. In detail. At length. While kissing every revealed scrap of her flesh until her mind is so boggled with wanting him, she can’t help but whisper his name as a plea.

Sara: That’s what I’d enjoy.

Sara: Please write that.

Rouge sends me a curse.

Rouge: No.

Sara: Good men are in such short supply these days.

Rouge: I’m positive you just described the most crimson flag possible.

Sara: Red flags are pretty.

I would know. I’m planning a festival around them, dang it.

Rouge: Infiction, red flags are pretty. You’d pepper spray someone who did what you just described in real life.

Sara: Depends on who’s doing it.

Rouge: In the context of this story, the characters are practical strangers. Please tell me you’d pepper spray an actual stranger trying to do anything like that to you.

My lip juts.

Sara: The fun thing about editing for you, Rouge, is that I don’t have to be the voice of reason in the relationship.

Rouge: It just feels like you’ve forgotten that our dear male lead is a short king with modest shoulders.

Sara: He’s working on the shoulders.

Rouge: He can’t work on the height.

“Mars.”

Mars curses and drops his phone on his face. Wincing, he meets my eyes. “Yes…?”

“How tall are you?”

His lips part. “Six-foot-one…and a quarter.”

“Stand up.”

He does, and I follow, approaching him.

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