We have mice in our house.
In the romance version of this story, my husband and I bicker charmingly about how to deal with them. I’m a bleeding-heart city girl who aspires to do no harm. He’s a country boy—somehow still improbably wealthy, so wealthy I don’t have to work if I don’t want to, though I do, because I love being an interior designer—who’s never questioned his God-given right to snap traps. In one scene, startled by a mouse in the dog food, I jump on a chair, screaming, and he spins me down into a kiss. In the end, he plugs the holes they’re getting in through and builds a thriving mouse city in the barn.