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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. 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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