“Whfhat?” Dumbfounded, his cheeks turned a muddy salmon color.
“No, you may not.” His voice’s tremble was half of what it once was. “And I am not cabbage.”
Her smirk was neither sinister nor sweet, but a mixture of both as she sauntered over to him in her eight-inch, black heels. “Such a shame. You’re exactly my type.” Cocking her head to the side, her wig rustled impatiently–or more accurately, something rustled beneath her wig–and she gazed at him through her Prada sunglasses. “And you’re right. You’re far too delicious to be cabbage. What’s your name, darling?"
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