Avery slipped out of the car elegantly and looked around for her next conquest.
Licking her lips, she said, “I really hope that’s not Trace, over there, because I’m about to be all over that guy.”
“Avery!” I hissed.
“What? Look at him,” she pointed.
I did and it wasn’t Trace.
The guy was probably the same height as Trace but broader. The thick-corded muscles of his arms were on full display because he only wore a vest; one of those vests that guys usually wore with suits. His jeans were loose on his wide frame and riddled with stains, his hands shoved into the pockets. On his head he wore a fedora, the wavy ends of his shaggy golden brown hair sticking out from underneath. Sandy brown stubble dotted his prominent jaw and his eyes were a piercing light blue. In fact, I didn’t know eyes could be that light. And between his pouty lips, sitting there as if an afterthought, was a lit cigarette.
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