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He opens his shirt, exposing his upper chest. Firm and toned. Very toned. But no tattoo. A few scars. No. A lot of scars. One a thick line over his heart. But no ink.
I nod, my lips pressed together. “Good to know,” I say, turning back to the lease to hide my blush.
This is it. No more stalling.
I’ve reached the second point of no return in ten minutes. Nothing has changed since the last one, though.
I have nowhere else to go.
I sign the dotted line.
* * *
