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I tiptoe across the concrete floor on bare feet, shoes in hand as I make my way to the kitchen. I made my lunch the night before as well as my coffee so all I have to do is put some ice into it when I get to work. Just need to grab some things, and then I’ll be on my⁠— “Morning.” “Jesus fucking Christ,” I say as I fly into the wall, clutching my shoes to my chest.
He's Not My Type (The Vancouver Agitators, #4)
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