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A group of celebrity friends huddle together. Glasses clattering, lights blinding, silver metallic dresses rattling, the blaring music drowning out Selena's words. But what Taylor heard next was crystal clear, almost as if it was a shred of her own soul. A laughter. The sound reverberated around her skinny waist, shooting bewitching tingles up her spine. It weaved closer to her chest, poked it once and sew itself into the walls of her heartbeat. She glanced nonchalantly in it's direction, her heart constricting at the curve of his dimples and she restrained every nerve in her body from dipping a finger in them. He wore a clean suit, a bow tie, a questionable buzz cut and the aura of a notorious playboy. Then he spoke. And the world as Taylor knew, had ceased to exist. Her Grammy-winning vocabulary now consisted of only three words; words that flashed and pounded in her mind with the rhythm of her pacing heartbeat.

He's fucking British.

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