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Well, Mr. Man, you disgust me. We push out of the office’s saloon double doors and onto the midway right as Emory says, “You’re not riding with me?” His voice almost makes me jump. Not to mention, the … implication. Me and Emory? Riding … No. Stop.
He finally says, “I’m not a fish.” “What?” I bite out. “Fish can be blackened,” he mutters. “I can’t have a blackened heart because I’m not a fish.” “Funny,” I deadpan. “Well, you’re o-fish-ally an ass.” “No, my humor is e-squid-sit.”
open my mouth to counter, but not before Quinn blurts out, “Wow, you must be … Mr. Darson?” “Dawson,” he instantly corrects, his frown twisted in a way that is the exact opposite of the smile I saw him give the cute child this morning. Well, it couldn’t last forever, I suppose. Quinn tilts her head to the side with a small grin. She knew what she was doing. “Ah, right. Dawson,” she says. “My bad.”
But his thigh hasn’t moved since he sat down. I’ve noticed that it’s hard. Strong. He clearly works out.
No, don’t think about Emory’s hard palm, you freak.
“Just be careful,” Quinn whispers. “Don’t let his storm cloud rain on your flower garden.” But I don’t tell her that, sometimes, plants need a little water to thrive.
trying to hide my reddening face. “Ew, come on.”
you guys talk about when I’m not here?” Bennett