According to my female coworkers, the ranger holding pressure on the leg wound was a philanderer of the vainest kind. True to form, during my first week on the job, he deliberately flexed his bicep under my fingers when I grasped his upper arm to tell him something. I liked it—the bicep. It was the right size, plenty firm, and full of promises a man ought to keep. Ah, but this splendid muscle came attached to a super-competitive ranger with political connections and Machiavellian ambitions. A wise woman gives a man like that a wide berth. I, on the other hand, shook a red cape in front of him
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