“She doesn’t look like a Buster,” I declared, “more like a Princess Fancy Pants.”Tate was bent and pulling a skilled out of a cupboard. His head tipped back and his eyes locked on mine.“You call my cat Princess Fancy Pants, Ace, we got problems.”
“You call my cat Princess Fancy Pants, Ace, we got problems.”
“He lowered his head toward her, so she could feel his breath warm againsther skin, their mouths only inches apart. “You’re panting for it, aren’t you,Princess?” he murmured.”
“I guessed princesses-in-training didn’t wear pants.”
“You’re gonna find special, Ace.”…“Sometimes special doesn’t exist, Tate,” I told him. “And I’m okay with that.”His lips came back to mine and when he spoke, he did it gently. “It will for you baby.”
“I caught her red-handed with her hands down his pants.""You did not," Fancy told Madda sternly, with as much dignity as she was able. "It was just one hand.”