“My parents lingered over coffee, telling Blake childhood stories about me. While I was grateful Blake wasn’t forced to tell work-related stories, mortification raced through me. Blake, however, seemed to enjoy each and every one and frequently laughed out loud. God, he was sexy when he let out that deep laugh, his two little dimples lighting up his face. Even I had to laugh when my parents shared the time my father had told me I needed a little elbow grease to finish building my dollhouse. ... Silly me ran to my mother’s pantry, yanked out the shortening, and smeared it all over my arms. What a doofgirl! Shortly after breakfast, my father shrugged on his heavy alpaca coat. “We’re going to visit the Joneses.” It was a tradition. Every Christmas day for as long as I could remember, my parents stopped by their best friends’ house for an exchange of presents and a little grog. Dad looked my way. I was seated on the living room couch next to Blake, cuddling my snow tiger.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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