What I find in the last booth stops me in my tracks. Jack St. Claire is standing near a wall covered in paddles and other tools I don’t recognize. He’s shirtless with his back to us and a pair of dark jeans hanging on his hips. I can’t take my eyes off the cords of muscle cascading from shoulder to shoulder and down his spine. There’s a glisten of sweat on his skin, and I’m too struck by the sight to move when I know I should. A woman kneels on the floor at his side, but I don’t even look at her. Jack reaches for something along the wall, a bundle of black corded rope, and I spot the gold
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