Her childhood makes yours and mine read like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. My voice wasn't the least bit friendly. Fine, then just tell me yourself. Too old? I asked.
A hand wrapped around my wrist and jerked me up and away. His hands, so large they cupped my ribs, and nearly met at my waist, his thumbs pressing over my belly button, my lower stomach. Together we are more than we are apart, Anita, that is what love is. she-who-made-him popped up.
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