Yavannah Constantine.
"Quit fretting, love," Adonis teased, wrapping his arms around my waist as we stood by the airport, awaiting his stepsister's arrival. "It's a seven-year-old girl, not the president."
I sent him a small glare before I glanced down at my clothing once more. The incessant and critical overthinker at the back of my mind leered at me again. What if I looked too shabby?
On a normal day, there would have been nothing shabby about wearing button-downs and low-rise jeans, but now, it looked like I was wearing a potato sack. Maybe she was used to her mother's flashy dressing and wouldn't be able to accept my minimalism. Then again, I wasn't trying to replace her mother. I just wanted to be here for her—if she would let me.
Just before I could venture off into another self-degrading train of thought, soft and warm lips pressed against my temple.
