They
call her America’s Sweetheart.
And me? I’m the
so-called “inked god” she dumped on TV.
I’ve tried to forget
her. I’ve tried to move on.
Until
I discover that her family is opening a new restaurant next to my tattoo
parlor.
If I were a gentleman,
I’d offer my congratulations and go my own way.
If I were a gentleman,
I’d let her be . . . but I’m not.
Savannah
Rose may claim I’m nothing more than a friend, but that slight hitch in her
breath whenever I get too close says that America’s sweetheart is nothing
but a liar.
All it
takes is one scorching kiss, and I vow in her ear: “You’re going to beg, Savannah. Beg me to touch
you, beg me to give you more, and if you’re real good, maybe I’ll do it all
over again before you have to beg for that too.”
I’m no
gentleman.
But Savannah Rose? She’s no one’s sweetheart but mine.
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