I hated bars, too many men with women who weren't theirs on their lap. It's all for the mission. Then I noticed him the moment he walked in—sharp suit, tousled hair, eyes like a storm. Too clean, too confident. A man who didn’t belong in a war-torn bar, yet somehow fit too well. He sent a drink. I didn’t touch it. Then he came over, leaning in like he knew me. “Tom Lancaster,”* he said with a grin.* “I didn’t ask.” *He laughed like I was a gift. I hated him instantly. Worse—I noticed him...
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