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My stomach tightens with need as Logan reaches me.
“Hey, bartender.” His voice is low and deliberate.
One hand goes to my hip as he inserts himself between my dangling legs.
A cocky grin that always levels me.
A scar on his cheek that cuts my heart in half because I know where it came from.
A raindrop tattoo on his right bicep that matches the one I have on my left breast.
And whiskey eyes the same color as mine.
Those eyes see right through me as usual when he says with certainty, “You need something.”
