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THE EIGHTH pt3

Taylor moves around the kitchen with the ease of a practised chef. It is a pleasure watching his hands; his long fingers move swiftly, and I muse at what it would be like to feel them running along my skin. As if he knows what I am thinking, Taylor glances up and winks at me. I flush, a state that I feel like I am permanently in when I am around him. I take a large gulp of my cocktail, hoping to still my nerves, but it is not long before I feel the alcohol going to my head and I start to feel a bit glassy-eyed. Fortunately, it is not long before Taylor is sliding a steaming plate in front of me. The aroma has whetted my appetite, and I suddenly feel ravenous.

Taylor rounds the island and comes to sit beside me. We eat in companionable silence for several minutes until the rumbling of my stomach starts to subside. "This is delicious. Thank you," I comment.

"You are very welcome." Taylor smiles at me, and I feel my cheeks going red again. We start chatting about inconsequential things,
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