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75.2

My chest tightened as Griff stormed toward the study, his veins burning with a mix of determination and fury. I had no idea when this had happened, and he had never confided in me that my men had been so hostile. I had no idea men could be so bitchy.

One of the enforcers at the door knocked before letting him in. When Griff stepped in the wood-paneled room, his gaze drifted past the bookshelves and sofa and locked straight to the huge bay at the end, where a 1970s version of myself sat behind the huge wooden desk with Gerrison.

Sunlight streamed in from the tall windows behind us, hitting my voluminous blonde hair, making it glow like a buttercup in the middle of summer. It curled outward at the front, defying gravity, and fell in dramatic waves down to my red shirt.

Griff’s pulse quickened. His fingers trembled. He clutched the Tiffany box and inhaled a deep breath.

The only way to describe how Griff felt at that moment was fluttery. Now that I knew him better, it was easy to see why
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