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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.”