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... am, something about riding Steve through a field of talking pastries (the pastries had been singing his name)—when the blare of a horn yanked him back into reality.
He groaned, rolled over, and was immediately hit in the face by a pillow.
Followed by a small, shadowy cat foot.
"Grumble," Darin muttered, voice hoarse, "I swear if that was on purpose—"
Grumble, of course, offered no apology. He merely yawned and resumed his perch atop Darin’s chest like he owned the ...
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