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Only this wasn’t any woman.
This was Mercy Martin, the puppy who’d trailed after him so many years earlier. His best friend’s little sister.
He slammed the trunk of his beat up Ford Mustang closed, swinging his government issued duffel bag up over one shoulder. “You want me to beat your ass, Mercy?”
“Only if it’s part of foreplay.” Mercy’s tone was light, flirtatious, her smile bright and inviting, but there was something off about her body language. Her shoulders were stiff, and her eyes were downcast. Her chin jutted out, defiant, like she was fighting him instead of trying to seduce him.