“Next!” the woman with olive skin and gray roots hollers from the cash register. Miller simply hands her my list of desserts. “These please.” The woman’s lips tick up in an uncharacteristic way as her eyes scan the sheet. “I like you guys,” she states before taking off to box up our desserts. “See,” I whisper, my hand snaking over Miller’s hip, fingers splaying over her lower belly. “My paper came in handy. There’s no way we would’ve gotten that kind of response if we handed her a fucking phone.” She chuckles, her hand covering mine before calling out, “Can we add a tiramisu too please?”
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