Dahlia’s nails dig into the flesh of my arm until we’re standing by Julian’s truck. “Okay. Spill. What’s going on between you and Lorenzo?” I look at her with raised brows. “There’s nothing to spill.” “You’re hiding something.” She crosses her arms. I do the same. “I’m not.” Outside of keeping our situationship a secret, that is. “Then why can’t I say Lorenzo’s name without you turning two shades pinker?” “It’s nerves.” “Since when do you get nervous?” I shrug. “Do you like him?” she asks without any prelude. “No.” I sound genuine, but my incriminating face doesn’t help matters. “Hm,” she says
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