Then someone clears her throat. Baz stands up straight, which means his mouth jerks away from mine. I step away so quickly, I’m not sure I didn’t teleport. His maid or nanny or whatever she is, is standing in the archway. She’s wearing a black dress and a white apron. “Mr. Pitch,” she says, and she must get paid to pretend she doesn’t notice anything around here, because she doesn’t even flinch. Boys kissing is probably mild—she’s probably walked into interrogations and goat sacrifices. “You have guests,” she says. “Two young ladies.” “Thank you, Vera,” Baz says without a hint of apology.
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