“Do you like me?” I ask him as his turquoise eyes catch on my lips and lift back up to find my gaze hard and steely. “More than any girl I've met since Cara or …” He doesn't finish that sentence, but it feels like a loaded gun, so I decide to leave it for later. “I'm not sick like Cara, Copeland.” “It shouldn't matter, even if you were,” he says with a long sigh, putting his forehead against mine. I'm hyperaware of the fact that Michael is standing just inches away, tucked into the second bathroom, listening. But it doesn't feel like an invasion. No, he's got just as much right to be here as I
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