A small part of me had expected Cyrus to grow bored of the photo shoot too, but he’s waiting right there by the door, patient as ever, my purse hanging around his shoulder. Tenderness blazes through me, warming the empty space between my ribs. “Thanks for holding my bag,” I tell him, reaching over to take it from him. “It’s an honor to hold your bag,” he says. “And it’s so light I barely felt it.”
