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MAY 1-3
Russell’s one eye in the mirror was blearier, but he could still pick it out among the bottles. He definitely wasn’t drunk enough yet. “Melanie is in the past, man. There isn’t s**t you can do about that one. You go back, you open the studio, you go down on one knee, but even if she say yes, your heart, she fold up and die. I’m Italian. I know this things.” Down on two knees and bowing his head into the sand at Tatoosh. He hadn’t been thinking of Melanie. He was thinking of the way Cassidy Knowles looked, standing tall above him, scowling downward as the smile tugged at the corners of her generous mouth. Again, the line of jaw to neck, of cheek to eye made him want to caress, stroke, feel. The wind picking at her tightly controlled hair, but not breaking it free—not a single strand out o
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