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The restaurant Malachi chose was elegant. Too elegant. The kind of place where everything on the menu cost more than my monthly grocery budget back when I was still trying to please Travis.
Soft jazz played in the background. Couples spoke in hushed tones around us, lost in their own little worlds.
And I was nervous. So nervous I could barely sit still.
"Relax," Malachi said, watching me fidget with my napkin. "It’s just dinner."
Just dinner. With him. ...
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