Someone—no, two someones—tug gently at my hair. I yank my head away. “What the hell?” Both Greer and Felicity have their hands up, surprise clear on their faces. “Don’t touch my hair.” Greer looks chagrined. Felicity stammers, “I—I was just telling Greer about the stylist that comes to the Lodge, and your hair—” “Is different than yours?” I snap. “Is curly? Big? Sure, but that doesn’t mean you get to touch it whenever you want. I’m not a petting zoo.” “Sorry, Bree,” Greer says, flushing. Felicity blinks, almost starts speaking again, then stops herself. Nods. “Sorry. I didn’t realize…” “Yeah.”
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