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Owen smiled.
« I love them, but I’ve never had a warm one. »
« You smell like cinnamon. »
« I work in a bakery. »
« Do you make cinnamon rolls? »
« Every morning. »
He closed his book.
On the drive home, he held the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white.
« I love them, but I’ve never had a warm one. »
« Then somebody has failed you terribly. »
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