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She’d obviously dressed with the intention of blending in, but she could no more blend into a crowd than a jewel could blend into mud.
“Just shut up and follow me,” I snapped, wishing I had a wittier reply. “Yes, ma’am.” His cheeks dimpled. “I love a woman in charge.”
“You always underestimate me.” “And you always provoke me.”
“You don’t know how I taste.” His smile took on a decidedly more wicked slant. “Not yet.”
I wasn’t a poetic person in the least, but she looked good enough to inspire Shakespeare himself.
He knew every part of me intimately—mind, body, and heart—and he loved me not despite but because of my flaws.