I stop and turn around, giving her my back, and squat down. “Hop on.” “What?” she laughs. “Hop on. I’ll carry you.” I look over my shoulder and catch her chewing that bottom lip again. “Come on, Mac. You can’t walk home barefoot, and you’ve almost kissed the ground twice since you left the bar. It’s not like it’s your first piggyback ride.” Jesus. She brings out the inner thirteen-year-old in me. “I’m wearing a dress, Nix.” Her protest is weak at best, and I can tell she’s thinking about it. “Come on, Mac. Hitch up your damn dress and hop on. I bench press four times your weight. We’ll be home
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