Birds Of A Feather
“Champagne.” The steward places my order on the tray table. “Is there anything else I can get you before takeoff, Miss Windthorn?”
“Chocolate.” I give him a winning, closed-lipped smile.
“Of course, Miss Windthorn.”
Lifting my flute high, I whisper toward the window, “Harrison, may you rot.”
I’m determined to enjoy every possible convenience
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