I hate sports and he is football royalty.

I like quiet and predictable, but he's sex and swagger personified.

I didn't particularly care for Saint Stevenson the first moment I laid eyes on him.

But his warped brain seemed to process our initial meeting as foreplay.

I don't care that he's filthy rich.

Or that I can't stop staring at him.

Or that I need to remember to breathe when he's in my presence.

He is nothing but a distraction.

From my five-year master plan.

That's why I'm going to hate every minute of this.

Right?