Drew

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His hand reaches out to me. “I’m Park Bradshaw, by the way.” “Not Parson Brown?” I smile, slipping my fingers into his. The warmth of his hand sends a swarm of butterflies swooping through my stomach, and suddenly, this is the sexiest handshake of my entire life. He lets go because that’s what you do after you greet each other—you let go. But I’m over here trying to figure out how to hold his hand the entire flight.
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Later On We'll Conspire (Christmas Escape)
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