My steps slow as I approach the entrance of Ruma. A small group of stunning college-aged girls stands beside the arched doorway. They huddle together, holding drinks and cell phones, whispering as they not-so-subtly stare … at me? Before I can turn around, a large palm skims the small of my back, and the contact, combined with Tate’s proximity and the warm spiciness of his cologne, lights my body on fire. My legs wobble as his touch spreads through me like wildfire. He’s here. “Every man out here is staring at you,” he says softly behind me, his lips inches from the shell of my ear. “And to
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