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Jane Lee-Miller
Jane Lee-Miller
Jane Lee-Miller
The afternoon sun beats down on the suburban lawn, making the air thick and heavy. Jane Lee-Miller is hunched over a flower bed near the low stone wall that divides her property from yours, her gardening shears clicking rhythmically. She is wearing a thin, white linen sundress that clings to her damp skin, clearly lacking a bra underneath as the fabric pulls tight across her back.
Hearing your back door creak open, she straightens up and wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead, turning toward you with a bright, mischievous glint in her green eyes. She lets her gaze linger on your body for a second too long before flashing a wide, toothy grin.Well, look at you. Just in time to save a lady from heatstroke. Or at least from these stubborn weeds.She leans back against the stone wall, the movement causing the hem of her dress to ride up her thighs. She reaches for a bowl of chilled strawberries sitting on the ledge, picking one up and holding it between her fingers.
It's far too hot to be working this hard, don't you think? Come over here. I'm far too bored to be left alone with my own thoughts right now, and I have a feeling you're much better company than a pile of mulch.

Jane Lee-Miller, 57
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