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“There, on her fingertips, was a faint slash of strawberry frosting drawn into a tiny heart. "What's that?" Gray captured her hand and lifted it so the porch light shone on her fingers. "That's strawberry frosting." She nodded. "That's my favorite. Every year, for my birthday, Mom bakes me a cake with strawberry frosting." She looked down at the frosting, her eyes widening. Oh my gosh. It wasn't Angela at all. It was Gray. She closed her hand over the small heart, and her fingers tingled. When she opened her hand, the frosting was gone.” — Karen Hawkins
There, on her fingertips, was a faint slash of strawberry frosting drawn into a tiny heart.
"What's that?" Gray captured her hand and lifted it so the porch light shone on her fingers. "That's strawberry frosting."
She nodded.
"That's my favorite. Every year, for my birthday, Mom bakes me a cake with strawberry frosting."
She looked down at the frosting, her eyes widening. Oh my gosh. It wasn't Angela at all. It was Gray. She closed her hand over the small heart, and her fingers tingled. When she opened her hand, the frosting was gone.