Our doorman tries to hide the sideways look he gives Nix and me but fails as Nixon walks right past him with his hands anchored through my knees, absolutely refusing to put me down. The ankle strap of my hot-pink patent-leather stilettos dangle from my fingertips, and I wonder what we must look like. “Oh my goodness, Nixon. Put me down before someone else sees.” But does he listen? No. He hoists me further up his back and chuckles instead. “Wouldn’t want a scandal, now would we, Mac?” We pass the dark coffee shop which closed hours ago before stopping at the elevator. He swings me around so I
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