She laughed the kind of laugh that contained amusement strong enough to ripple through every muscle of the body. “Are you trying to make me fall for you? It isn’t going to work with a cliché like that, sweetie.”
“No, no,” he whined, “I’m serious.”
Her blood-red fingernails grazed the skin of his arm, and she leaned forward as if to speak her most intimate secret.
“All right. Tell me.”
He attempted to compose himself. “Well…”
“Don’t be shy,” she reprimanded gently. “I want to know.”
“When I think of you… all I see is red. Your passion, your anger, your love.”
“Tell me more,” she purred, sipping her wine.
He continued hesitantly, “Everyone sees your beauty and revels in it… but nobody can touch you, because you have thorns, and they will never survive your edges.”
She tipped back the last of her wine.
“Is that so?”
And she continued to laugh.