“That’s the thing about marigolds. They’re all beautiful.” My eyes immediately find his. He just called me beautiful. Right? “Cade.” He softly takes the flower from between my fingers. I don’t protest. I can’t. Not after what he just said. Not with the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. His rough fingertips brush the tender skin of my cheek. He pushes all my hair behind my ear before he tucks the flower right behind it. He must feel the thump of my racing pulse against his fingertips as he cups my cheek. There’s the rough scratch of a callus from his thumb when he lets it brush over my
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