“Hello, Harriet.” I drop the box. He swallows, looking nervous. His hand pushes through his hair in a move so achingly familiar I could cry. “You might not remember, but we’ve met before. I—” I don’t wait for him to finish the rest of his sentence. I launch myself at him, my arms around his neck and my knees hugging at his hips. His arms snap around me immediately, tugging me higher against his chest, one hand fisting in my hair. “I remember,” I say, my voice too high, my mouth busy pressing frantic kisses to his chin, his jaw, the little hollow beneath his ear. “Of course, I remember.”
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