“How’re you doing there, darlin’?” Molly grins, and I see the first signs of alcohol haze as her eyes go half-lidded. “I like that nickname best, but I’m still not sure it’s the right one,” she says, then lowers her voice. Dropping one hand from my neck and crooking a finger toward me, she whispers, “Before I knew your name, I decided to call you Mr. Biceps.” I can’t hold back a smug grin. “Is that right?” “Yep. Don’t act like you don’t know you’ve got great guns.” She finds my upper arm and tries to wrap her hand around it. “See? It’s more circumferamence—circumfratense—circumventerence—”
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