Sarah Ziemann

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I glance down at my phone. “It’s one in the morning.” “Yes, it is, and neither of us had dinner. I know because I’ve had my eyes on you for the last six hours.” This foreign feeling of flourishing under unexpected sunlight crashes into me. He did? He looked? He noticed? It is tempting to pretend he likes me, even if I know it can’t be true. “I don’t think we have the same culinary preferences.” I try to dodge the offer. “You’d be surprised.” “Where do you want to go?” I’m on my feet before I know it, following him. He waves me off. “You’ll see.”
Fallen Foe (Cruel Castaways, #2)
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