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That man was Southern manners and deep strokes wrapped in a dark chocolate package built like he fixed tractors on Monday and bodies on Friday. Muscular. Country. Hands that could rebuild a car engine or grip the back of your thighs while whispering Bible verses.
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“Girl,” I said, forcing a laugh, “you remember why I gave him the nickname 666?” Vane laughed, “Yup. 6 figures. 6 feet. 6 inches.
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