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It’s a little white cottage called Surrey House with a red door and green vines. There’s soft-looking grass in a gated front yard. It has old, warped pane windows and a crooked mailbox. Inside, there are exposed wooden beams and a high-arched ceiling.
He kisses me with hungry urgency, one hand flat on my back, one on my jaw. He’s the best, best, best kisser I’ve ever encountered. And for a bit at an award show, I once kissed Glen Powell.
