Foxe drops into her now-empty chair, kicking his legs up on the table. He lets out a low whistle, popping another cookie into his mouth. “Boy, does she hate you.” I shoot him a dirty look. “She does not hate me.” “Sure seems like she does.” He cocks his head to the side, studying her retreat. “She looks good walking away from you too, huh?” My arm lashes out, my fist connecting with his injured shoulder. He winces, losing balance for a split second. One of his cookies falls, and he groans. “Look what you made me do!” “Quit perving on your fucking relative, you cretin.” “What? Is it my fault
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