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“He hates me,” I mutter, deciding to have more tiramisu after all. “Nope. He just doesn’t know what to do with you.”
“When I kissed you the other day”—his fingers spread wide over my back, coaxing me even closer—“that wasn’t a mistake. Not even fucking close. Or if it was, it’s one I intend to make all over again.”
He fell back asleep, but he didn’t dream. No need. He was already living the dream.
