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... lian Sinclair had already regained his usual cold and stern demeanor, sitting on the sofa.
But in the wastebasket, there was clearly a lot of used tissues.
Looking more closely, the flush on his neck and cheeks hadn’t fully faded, and the collar of his shirt was a bit rumpled. Only his eyes remained cold as ice.
They were all men—instantly, both understood, exchanging a loaded, meaningful glance.
Mason Hawthorne leaned forward, waggling his eyebrows playfully: "Ju ...
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