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I would challenge anybody to have a conversation with Max Kuemper and not flirt. The man is a fucking babe.
“I didn’t pick you up,” I point out. “You just sort of attached yourself to me.” “Like a cuddly and adorable koala.” “Or a parasite.”
“Maxy, I’m here, wearing an omelet yellow shirt and an apron, asking you to go steady with me.”
“Careful what you wish for, Luke Kelly,” he warns, holding his hand out to me palm up across the center console. “You’d be an easy person to fall in love with.”
“Boyfriend, then. Whichever label means that we’re exclusive, and that nobody can touch you but me, that’s the one I want.” “All right,” he says, smiling softly. “Boyfriends. You sure you know what that word means?” “Property of Luke Kelly—anybody who checks out your fine ass that isn’t me, dies a slow and painful death.”
“It would be a damn shame to hide those thighs underneath those ugly ass pajamas, Maxy.”