“Tatum, I like you,” he murmurs. “I like your spunk. I like your face”—he nudges my head up, forcing me to look at him—“and your hair.” His hand trails down my length. “I like your smile and your tenacity.” He lets the ends of my hair go. “I like you drunk. I like you sober.” Squatting down, he kneels in front of me, wedging himself between my thighs as I sit on the edge of the bed. “I like you, and I think you might like me, too.” A shy smile plays at the edge of his mouth, and I swear it’s directly connected to the stupid organ in my chest. “Hang out with me today. Or this evening or
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