Marc had his squirt gun again, along with the veil and bouquet, just in case anyone who'd wanted to get married last time hadn't had the chance. But he was currently leaning both elbows on the counter, his phone pressed to his ear, gasping in shock. Repeatedly
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She walked in, got her drink and stopped dead when she spotted Cuddy sitting there.
"Cuddy?"
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What's that about diary pages? And . . . poisoned perfume?! It's like telemundo in here!
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"No, I don't have it with me. . . . You'll have to play it, yourself . . . yes, I know that's not what Britney does, but, honey, you so don't want to be Britney. . . . Or Hilary Duff. . . . Or Hannah Montanna! . . ."
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