“Ginger Nightingale caught her balance and eased her foot back onto the rung while cursing the night for being so quiet. A cat would have a hard time sneaking about. After what seemed like a full minute—or more—of holding her breath, she continued her downward trek. Brock had already loaded his instruments into the bed of his truck and could be leaving any minute. Stars filled the sky, showing no sign of rain. That was a relief. Her purple dress was as new as her shoes. So were the white cami kn...ickers under the rayon dress. The long, loose-fitting silk camisole and tap pants, trimmed with red lace, felt delicious against her skin, and had been purchased just for this event. She might be Roger Nightingale’s youngest daughter, but she wasn’t a baby. It was time the world realized she was eighteen. A woman of age. Once on the ground, Ginger grabbed the bag she’d tossed out the window and dashed around the corner of the building. A hint of guilt caught in her stomach. She should move the ladder, but it was heavy and awkward.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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