Baxter’s jacket didn’t look nearly warm enough, but I didn’t bother him about it. Figured the guy could freeze to death if he wanted to. We were in fucking Vermont; he should know better. However, when we got out of the car in the horrifically crowded parking lot at the market he just waggled his eyebrows at me, opened his coat like a drug dealer, and pointed to the little button inside that signified it was heated. A heated coat. What the fuck. I was impressed, and I couldn’t help myself. A heated coat? Why had I never thought of that? Jesus. It was forty degrees in November and it was only
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