Kitabı oku: «Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob?», sayfa 3
“Look at my face,” Richard demanded. “Do I look like a man who cares about your career?”
Brock’s brow furrowed. “Uh…no?”
“No! I want to know what the hell you were doing picking Bridget?”
Brock glanced over at the assembled green-card ladies who were chatting it up as they drank their celebratory glasses of champagne.
“Which one is Bridget?”
“That one.” Richard pointed to Bridget who stood apart from the other seven women still staring at her green card.
“Oh, her. She had a nice smile.”
“Yes, I know she has a nice smile, but look at her will you? She doesn’t belong on TV.”
Brock shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe if she was looking to do some character acting…”
“She doesn’t want to act!” Richard shouted, incensed. “She’s my assistant. You have to pick someone else.”
“Too late for that, Richard,” Chuck intervened. “The other women are already gone, and besides it made for great TV having the dark horse pull ahead in the end. She represents the every woman. You watch, the audience will eat her up. She’ll be an asset to the show.”
Richard wanted to shout again, but there was really no one to shout to. The deed was done and Bridget would be returning for another week. And it was his damn fault. Oh well, he thought. One more week couldn’t hurt. By then Brock would come to his senses and Richard would have his Bridget back.
Chuck and Brock left and Richard made his way to where she was still standing in apparent shock, snatching two glasses of celebratory champagne off the table on his way.
He handed her one and she beamed at him.
“Green,” she said, showing him the card.
“So I see.”
“He picked me.”
“Yes, I understand how the game is played.”
Bridget sipped her champagne and tried to stifle a giggle. It was entertaining to see Richard so clearly agitated—a predictable state for him when things didn’t go according to plan. “Funny, isn’t it? Because you seemed so sure that he wasn’t going to pick me, then he did pick me.”
“Yes, yes,” he snapped. “I get it. He picked you. I was wrong.”
“Really wrong. Colossally wrong. Napoleon at Waterloo wrong. Britney Spears as a brunette wrong—”
“How long are you going to hold this over my head?” he asked, cutting her off.
“I would say the statute of limitations for mocking runs out in about a year on this one.”
Richard groaned. “Fine. Consider this though, getting picked means you have to go back on TV next week. Next week is party night, too. No formal questions, just mingling. And we all know how you love to mingle, Bridge.”
She scowled at him. She hated to mingle. In fact, she hated parties, borne from a lifetime of watching her sisters be the life of every one they had ever attended. Since from a very young age she had known she didn’t have it in her to be the life of the party, she had decided to go the other way. She hugged walls, watched people and counted away the hours until she could leave and be free of the pressure of being a Connor girl at a party.
“But I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he recanted.
Richard had watched her face fall and he’d felt a little guilty raining on her parade so quickly. She’d been truly pleased that she had been picked out from among the throng. He didn’t want to spoil that. But he also didn’t want her getting her hopes up. Next week would be the end of this particular fairy tale. And at the end of the day, he needed his sensible assistant back.
Bridget regarded him as he sipped his champagne.
“This tastes horrible,” he noted, putting the glass down.
“It’s domestic,” she informed him. When he gasped, she reminded him, “Cable, remember. The budget didn’t call for foreign. So, let me get this straight. You don’t think I stand any chance of getting another green card next week, do you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t think I had any chance this week.”
“No.”
“But I did.”
“Fluke,” he quipped. He didn’t want to believe otherwise.
“Really,” she mumbled. “Care to place a wager on that?”
“You want to bet me?”
“A bet might make things more interesting.”
“What do you want?”
“If I get the green card next week, you agree to go on a vacation with me and my family in the Poconos for an entire weekend.”
“Deal. And if I win…you have to clean my loft for a month. Laundry and cooking included.”
“Deal,” she agreed and stretched out her hand. They shook and the bet was sealed. “That’s odd, though, I assumed you would have wanted to get out of Christmas.”
“The Christmas thing is only for two days, this is clean underwear for a month,” he told her.
That wasn’t entirely true. He’d cut his tongue out before he admitted it to her, but the truth was he was glad to have somewhere to go during the holidays. Bridget was his closest friend, and there really wasn’t anyone else he would rather spend that time with. Certainly not with his overly stuffy, extraordinarily successful family who would use the holidays to grill him about his net worth, his prospects for the future and his chances of making partner at V.I.P. Not that creating ad campaigns was a job worthy of the Wells name.
No, the next time he saw his family he wanted to present them with his own business. His name on the office door. His company that he would build into a success. Then maybe, just maybe, he would be forgiven for his lifetime of underachievement.
Bridget shrugged at his response and took another sip of her champagne. He was right. It was awful. But it didn’t matter. Not tonight. She had been picked above seven other beautiful women. She planned to savor the victory.
Not for too long, though. There was work to be done if she was going to compete seriously in next week’s show and she knew just the person to help her.
“Raquel!” Bridget called to the woman standing in the group of seven. Squealing with joy, Raquel bounced her way over to where Bridget and Richard stood.
“Oh, isn’t this exciting? Imagine, me on TV two weeks in a row.”
“Congratulations,” Richard offered her.
“Thank you, but I really had no doubt. But you, Bridget. See what mascara and the right shade of lipstick can do for you?”
“I’m beginning to,” she replied. “Listen, Raquel, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, do you think you could help me out for next week? I’m going to need a dress and more makeup and—”
“More makeup?” Richard protested. “What happened to all that stuff about not giving in to society’s dictates and taking the inner beauty high ground?”
“You were the one who made me put the makeup on in the first place!”
“That was when I thought it would be just once,” he countered. “Twice might compromise your morals.”
“Hello,” Bridget replied. “One word—television. There are no morals here.”
“She’s right,” Raquel agreed. “And say no more. Raquel to the rescue. Hee, hee, that rhymes.”
Neither Richard nor Bridget had the heart to tell her that it really didn’t.
“Give me your address and I will pick you up tomorrow. Then we’ll go shopping.”
“Hey,” Richard complained. “Tomorrow is a work day.”
“And this is work,” Bridget informed him. “I’m doing this for the show and for the client.”
“It will be so much fun,” Raquel bubbled. “I know just the dress place we should hit first. They have the most marvelous things for women. Even for women without breasts!”
“I have breasts,” Bridget grumbled.
“If you insist.”
“Sounds to me like a lot of effort for nothing.” This came from Jenna who had strolled over to their group during the conversation. “You don’t actually think a new dress is going to help you, do you dear?”
Bridget had to hand it to the woman, she played the catty bitch better than anyone on daytime television she’d ever seen. As a reply, she merely held up her card. “Green.”
Jenna smiled, displaying all of her white, perfectly formed teeth. “This week.”
She turned to Richard and moved up against him, definitively invading his personal space. “It’s good to see you again, Richard. I never really got a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed dinner with you the other evening.”
“Uh…” he stuttered. “Sure. Dinner. It was nice.”
Bridget watched the scene in complete fascination. She wasn’t jealous. Richard had dated several women throughout the three years she’d known him, none of whom had ever exceeded his four-date limit. He had several goals in life, but as far as she knew establishing a long-term relationship wasn’t one of them. Which was really one more reason why any nebulous and burgeoning feelings she might have for him were ludicrous. She was the ultimate long-term relationship girl. At least, she’d always thought she would be. Those kinds of thoughts, however, were for another time.
For now, Bridget needed to concentrate on Jenna. Maybe she could learn something from her. Currently, she was wielding seduction skills the way a samurai wielded a sword. Bridget watched how Jenna slid her hand up the front of Richard’s suit coat. The way she leaned into his body without actually touching him. The way she tilted her neck at just the right angle to give a man a few ideas. And Richard, Bridget did not doubt, was a man who could quickly get ideas.
Jenna made it all seem so effortless.
“We’ll have to do it again sometime,” she purred, then chuckled. “That is, if Brock doesn’t pick me to be his wife.”
“Sure,” Richard concurred.
“Ladies. Until next week.” She turned and sauntered away and again Bridget couldn’t help but be impressed by how she managed to walk on those heels. It was something Bridget was going to have to practice. Right after she bought a pair of shoes with heels.
For effect however, she turned to glare at Richard. She wasn’t really angry with him, but there was no point in letting him off the hook that easy.
“What?” he asked in reference to her glare. “I was interviewing her.”
The glare continued.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” he replied to her silent accusation.
Her eyes only narrowed farther.
“Okay, maybe it is fair, but nothing happened. She’s trying to mess with you. Don’t let her get to you.”
“I don’t plan to,” Bridget assured him. “Now, I believe someone promised me ice cream.”
“That was for when you lost,” he said. “You won, which means you treat.”
Bridget scowled but figured that was only fair. “Want to come along, Raquel?”
“And do what?”
“Eat ice cream,” Bridget explained although she was pretty sure that had been obvious given the fact that they were going out for ice cream.
“Ice cream? You mean that stuff with all the fat and sugar and calories in it?”
“Yep, that about sums up ice cream.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
But Bridget could see she was tempted. “When was the last time you had ice cream?”
“I don’t remember,” Raquel whispered as if she were committing some sin by even considering it.
“It’s really good.”
“I suppose, maybe, they have a low-fat variety?”
“Nope. Not this place. All fat and hot fudge.”
“And sprinkles,” Richard added.
“Sprinkles,” Raquel repeated as if she were saying diamonds instead.
“My treat.”
“Okay, but I want to state for the record that I agreed under stress,” Raquel proclaimed and marched off in search of her coat.
Richard considered that. “I think she meant duress.”
Bridget smiled. Her new friend might not be the brightest, but she was an artist, and Bridget was planning on putting her face, hair and body safely in this woman’s hands.
She only hoped that Raquel was up to the challenge.
3
“YOU HAVE to come out,” Raquel explained patiently. “Or how can I possibly see what the dress looks like on you?”
“Trust me. It’s no good,” Bridget said from behind the dressing-room curtain.
“That’s what you’ve said about every one so far.”
“Because they have all been no good.” Bridget looked in the mirror and winced. This dress was a clingy, strapless silk number done in a deep purple that fell to just below her butt. Every time she tried to pull it down to completely cover her bottom one of her breasts popped free.
Suddenly, the curtain was thrust aside and Bridget tried to cover her exposed breast with her hands.
“No,” Raquel determined. “That’s not right.”
“Thank you,” Bridget sighed. “Let’s face it. It’s hopeless. We’re never going to agree. Why can’t I just find a nice, simple, black cocktail dress?”
“Because the point of this game is to stand out. We have to be like the peacock and ruffle our feathers.”
“What are you wearing?”
“A black cocktail dress,” Raquel admitted. “But I am, by my very nature, a peacock.”
Having no idea what that meant, Bridget instead glanced down at the one-billionth dress Raquel held in her hands.
“Try this one.” Raquel shoved the dress at her, pushed her back into the dressing room and closed the curtain with a deft motion.
Bridget stared down at the garment and sighed. It was time to face facts. A dress wasn’t going to turn her into a beauty. She looked into the mirror and took in her white skin, dark hair, which today she had pulled back into a ponytail, and her sticklike body.
Okay, maybe not sticklike, she decided. She did, in fact, have breasts, just not that much of them. She knew that because they kept popping out of dresses at the most unexpected times.
This dress was red. A vibrant red. A red so bright, she considered putting on sunglasses before trying it on. But she knew if she balked, Raquel would stomp her foot and pout, and for whatever reason, Bridget found herself slightly intimidated by the pout.
So she removed the purple concoction and stepped into the red number. It circled her neck leaving her shoulders and arms bare. It fell to the top of her knees, for which she was truly grateful, and when she turned…
“Something is missing,” Bridget announced through the curtain.
Again, it slid open and Raquel stood in the doorway. “What?”
“It’s got no back. Go out there and find it for me will you?”
“Silly, it’s not supposed to have a back. Now turn around and let me see the front.”
Bridget did as instructed and Raquel oohed. “You’re oohing. Don’t ooh. This is not an ooh dress. It’s got no back.”
“Just look at yourself, will you?” Raquel moved out of the way and Bridget left the tiny dressing area. Three full-length mirrors stood at the end of the tiny dressing-room hallway and Bridget walked toward them, wondering the whole time who the girl in the red dress was. It shimmered as she moved. Instead of making her seem too pale, it made her skin glow. The neckline plunged, but the gathered material sort of left the contents of her chest a mystery and when she turned…
“Ooh,” Bridget moaned.
“See.”
The dress did scoop dramatically, barely covering the small of her back, but the effect was…not so bad. Who knew she had such a killer back?
“This one?” she asked Raquel, confirming what she already suspected.
“That one.”
Bridget turned and studied herself again. “I’ll take it.”
“Wonderful,” Raquel stated.
“Does this mean we’re done?” Bridget asked hopefully. She couldn’t remember a day when she’d worked harder, and all they had done so far was shop.
“Don’t be silly. Now we need shoes.”
Bridget groaned. Shoes. She was never going to make it.
LATER THAT DAY, she limped her way into Richard’s office. He looked up from his drafting table and grimaced. “What happened to you?”
“Shoe accident,” she muttered. She hung her dress, draped in black plastic, on his coat rack then hobbled her way to the stool positioned on the other side of his drawing table. She climbed up on it and sighed in blessed relief to be off her feet.
“Shoe accident?”
“Yeah, I fell off a pair. You would be amazed at how high those things can actually go.”
He chuckled and nodded his head toward the dress. “Is that it?”
“It is.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.” She wanted it to be a surprise. Raquel had big plans for her including the dress, the sandals they had picked out to go with it that were currently being dyed to match, a new hairstyle and makeup. When all was said and done, Bridget was going to be a new woman and she wanted the effect to be startling.
So startling Richard might feel compelled to walk up to her, proclaim to the world his hidden passion for her—which, in all honesty, she wasn’t sure she exactly wanted him to have, but it played much better in her fantasy—and then sweep her off her feet.
At least she hoped he would sweep her off her feet. She really didn’t walk so well in the shoes.
“What are you doing?” she wondered aloud, taking a peek at his drawing.
He glanced around to make sure no one was passing by his office door then answered, “Stuff.”
“Stuff” for Richard meant non-work-related comic-strip stuff. Bridget never understood why he got so anxious about people uncovering his big dark secret. The great mystery was that the creative force behind most of V.I.P.’s successful ad campaigns was also a truly gifted cartoonist.
Whenever she asked him when he’d begun drawing comics, he’d shrug and mumble something about being a kid. Then invariably he would try to pretend it meant nothing to him. He would demean it by calling it a hobby. Or recreational drawing. Her favorite was when he referred to it as his creative Drano. Whenever the ideas stopped flowing for a product, he invariably turned back to the strip to get the creative juices moving.
The first time she saw one of his strips, she had immediately fallen in love with his talent. For months afterward she had begged him to submit the strip to a paper, a magazine, someone who could render a professional judgment. But he refused. Every once in a while, she would broach the subject again, but invariably he would balk.
Comic strips weren’t serious; advertising was serious, he would tell her.
The last time he’d said that she’d pointed out that writing an ad for a company called Breathe Better Mouthwash was not exactly what she would call serious. But he hadn’t budged.
“Let me see this one,” Bridget said.
He pushed the white paper filled with the neatly arranged boxes over the top of the two-sided desk and let her study it.
“So what has Betty gotten herself into this time?” Betty was his latest cartoon character. She’d shown up over a year ago in a drawing and had been a constant in his work since then. Betty coincidentally bore a striking resemblance to…well, Bridget.
“Her boss has asked her for a favor and now she finds herself in a bit of trouble.”
“I don’t know where you get your ideas,” Bridget said sarcastically.
He smiled innocently. “They just come to me. Hey, can I use that shoe bit?”
“Sure. Mock my life. As long as it brings a chuckle to you, that’s all that matters.”
“Speaking of mocking, your mother called,” Richard told her, pulling his drawings back to his side of the desk. “She wants to know why you were on television trying to get a husband when you have such a wonderful man like me in your life.”
“Did you explain how you sold me into the servitude of Breathe Better Mouthwash?”
“I told her it was my fault. I begged her for forgiveness. She asked me if I was coming for Christmas, to which I said yes. There, you see? I’m not all bad.”
“Not all bad.”
Richard glanced again at the now mysterious dress. “So you’re all set for next week?”
“Hardly. I’ve got a facial, a pedicure and a manicure all scheduled for this weekend. This whole caving into society and trying to live up to impossible physical standards is exhausting work. I don’t know how women do it on a regular basis.”
“Practice,” Richard guessed. “Were you planning on spending any time here at the office?”
She shook her head. “After all that is done, Raquel is going to try and fit me in with Lars—”
“Lars?”
“Her hairstyling boyfriend.”
“You mean ex-boyfriend.”
“Right,” Bridget affirmed even as she was rolling her eyes. “She wants to get me in with him the day of the show to do my do.”
“Mountain Dew?”
“Hairdo,” she corrected, although she knew he knew what she meant. He was just being difficult. She was curious as to why. After all, putting her on the show had been his idea. Granted, he hadn’t expected her to make the first cut, but now that she had, he seemed almost surly about it and she didn’t think it was just about her missing work. “Anyway, then Raquel will do my makeup right before we go live.”
Richard scowled a little. “That’s an awful lot of effort for a guy you don’t even like.”
“How do I know if I don’t like him?” Bridget pointed out. “I haven’t really gotten to know him.”
“Trust me. With Brock, what you see is what you get. The man is as fake as his capped teeth and sunless tan.”
“That’s unfair. He might have hidden depths to him. Levels to his character that even he isn’t aware of. He is an actor. Surely he has to pull from some internal emotional wellspring. If not, then maybe I will bring something out in him that no other woman has.”
Richard’s scowl increased tenfold. “You’re not serious. You’re not actually interested in a soap opera actor?”
Hmm, Bridget mused. Was that jealousy she heard in the subtle undertones of his shouting?
“Like I said, I don’t know him well enough to know whether I like him or not. But he certainly deserves a chance. Let’s put aside the fact that he picked me over several other beautiful women—”
“You know,” he stated, cutting her off, very obviously irritated. “You’re not dog meat. Or horrifically disfigured in some way. It’s not the biggest shock in the world that you were selected.”
“You said before the show even began that there was no way he was going to pick me. Until the end you had me pegged as one of the losers.”
“Because of the sort of person he is and the type of woman I imagined he might be attracted to, not because of you,” Richard clarified. “You’re not ugly.”
“Thank you,” she beamed, tucking that little gem of a compliment away to savor the next time he ticked her off for some reason. “But let’s put that aside for now. The truth is I’m not getting any younger.”
“You’re twenty-eight!” He said that as if it were the youngest age on the planet.
“I agree. It’s not ancient. I just think it’s time I got a real boyfriend. Not just a pretend one. As wonderful as you are in the role, there is a little something…missing.”
Judging by his facial expression, this clearly incensed him and Bridget had to stifle her laughter in the face of his blossoming outrage. She found herself wondering at the cause of it. In the past few minutes, he’d expressed jealousy over Brock, told her she wasn’t ugly and now he was getting angry at the idea of being dumped, when he wasn’t even her real boyfriend in the first place.
Was it possible that the wedding had changed something for him, too?
She tried to remember if his behavior had been different since then, but there was nothing she could put her finger on. Sure, he had asked her to hang around the office more than ever, but that could be blamed on the demands of the Breathe Better campaign. A few times he’d offered to walk her to the subway, but that could be construed as protecting his interests—if she ever got mugged and was laid up in a hospital, he’d never find any of his folders.
Still, she had a feeling. A sort of awareness. Sometimes she’d look up from her stool to find him staring at her, but whenever she asked him about it, he would brush her off and tell her he was just thinking. Yet last night he’d told her she was the woman he would have picked. Now he was furious. So what did it all mean? Bridget didn’t know, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have some fun with him.
“What do you mean something missing? Am I not attentive?” Richard demanded.
“You are.”
“Am I not the picture of a respectable boyfriend?”
“You are.”
“So what’s the problem?” he practically shouted.
“It’s just that I’m looking for…what’s the word…?Action.”
“Action!”
“You know kissing, hand holding, hugging. Sex.”
His face was nearly purple by this point, which actually brought out the green in his hazel eyes. “You’re saying you want to have sex with Brock?”
“I’m saying that I want to have sex with someone,” Bridget corrected him, playing this out for all she was worth. “Brock just happens to be available. He finds me attractive, and let’s face it, he didn’t get the title of heartthrob for nothing.”
Instinctively, Richard straightened to his full six-foot-three-inch height. “You think he’s handsome?”
“Blond hair. Blue eyes. Buff. Who wouldn’t?”
“It’s just that I never pegged you as falling for that obvious sort of attractiveness. I assumed you would look deeper into a man’s mind. His heart.”
“The brain and the heart are both well and good,” Bridget agreed. “But when it comes to sex, it doesn’t hurt to have a hottie in the sack.”
Richard huffed and focused his attention back on his boxes of drawings. Bridget watched him and waited.
One minute later he lifted his head. “Are you trying to say that I’m not handsome enough to be your fake boyfriend?”
“Absolutely not,” she stated truthfully. Since the first day she’d come to work for him, she’d known he was handsome. Then he’d yelled at her for moving his pencils, which caused his overall attractiveness to diminish significantly. It was only recently that she found herself assessing his physical attributes once again. He was most definitely two thumbs up.
“I’m tall,” Richard stated. “Sure, more lean than buff, but that’s just because I’m too busy seeing to our future to get to the gym as often as I would like. But I’m no weakling.”
“You do have trouble opening pickle jars,” she pointed out.
“For Pete’s sake! No one can open those on the first try.”
“True,” she allowed.
“So I don’t have blond hair.”
“I like sandy brown,” she said quietly. Actually, his color hair was her favorite because it changed with the seasons, getting lighter in summer and darker in winter. Each season provided a whole new reason to be attracted to him.
“And sure he has blue eyes, but are they real?” Richard wanted to know.
“Hazel can be a very compelling color.”
“Thank you!” he shouted as if winning some kind of moral victory.
“Okay.”
Richard eyed her suspiciously now. He couldn’t say why, but he felt as if he had fallen into some carefully laid trap. “Okay, what?”
“Okay, you can have sex with me if you want,” she blurted out.
“What!”
“You’re standing there telling me how handsome you are and how you are so much better for me than Brock, I just assumed you were trying to proposition me.”
And if he was trying to proposition her, then she had just said yes. Oh, yeah, things definitely were getting weird between them.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He struggled a little to find his breath and as a result didn’t quite catch the fleeting look of disappointment that crossed her face. He had to wait until his heart stopped beating quite so hard before he could speak again. “You work for me.”
“Right. Ridiculous. What was I thinking?” she said, exhaling slowly. “Look, my ankle really hurts. Do you mind if I go home early? It looks like you’ve got everything under control for the new client coming in later this afternoon.”
Richard followed her gaze to the folder on the credenza behind him and the preliminary storyboards he had drawn up.
“I do.”
“Remember, they are going to want to buy ad time on TV. Tell them they can reach the teen market just as effectively and for significantly less money with print ads in magazines.”
“I got all your research and notes,” he told her. “And it’s just an introduction.”
“You’re sure you don’t need me? I could stay. It’s just that Raquel outlined this whole body beauty treatment for me that I’d better start working on if I want to fit in all the stages by next week.”
“Go. I’ve got everything ready.” And thanks to that whole sex conversation, he very much needed time to gather his wits. Wits that had been blown to the four corners of the universe with her shocking announcement that he could have sex with her. “Do you need help?”
“I can make it. See you tomorrow.” Gently, she lowered herself off the stool and limped back to the coat rack to retrieve her dress. He watched as she steadily made her way down the hall until she finally reached the elevator at the far end of the building.
As soon as the doors closed behind her, he slumped down onto the stool behind him that he very rarely used.
Sex? With Bridget? It was untenable. She was his assistant. He was her boss. Basically she was going to be his partner in his new agency. She had one of the finest analytical marketing brains in the country as far as he was concerned and would be the key to making his business a great success. Then there was the way they worked together—like a choreographed dance, it seemed so effortless at times.
She was able to predict his needs, accommodate his moods and make him laugh whenever he started to take himself too seriously. Not to mention she provided stellar material for his comic-strip character, Betty. But that was it.
They were colleagues. Friends. Partners. A team. Not lovers.
Unfortunately, he had a suspicion where her sudden craving for sex was coming from. It was possible that he’d laid it on a little too thick when he’d taken her to her sister’s wedding. It’s just that he knew what it was like not to measure up to a parent’s expectations or a sibling’s accomplishments. He knew all too well. And he didn’t want that for her.
It had been a fun night. They’d danced and cavorted, playing the part of lovers to the hilt. The whole time laughing at how easily they were fooling everyone.
It had been easy. Easy to hold her close while they danced because, despite their height differential, they seemed to fit together pretty well. He’d had no problem whispering in her ear because she’d used a special flower shampoo that had smelled really nice. Gazing into her eyes had been a little bit of a hassle, but that was just because of the damn glasses she insisted on wearing.
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