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“What does that mean?” I ask. “The bee’s knees.” “Fantastic. Excellent. The very best.” I pause with my hand on the screen door. She looks up to find me staring and I smile. “I think you’re the bee’s knees, Cassandra Sunderwell.”
“You’re pretty bee’s knees yourself, O’Dell. But don’t let it go to your head.” I grin. “Yes, ma’am.” But it’s too late. It’s already gone to my head, and my brain is throwing a decidedly premature “Cassie digs us” party.

