![]() ![]() ![]() Six foot five, with a fallen angel’s face and the body of a god, Jake continued to approach. She’d promise him anything-apologize profusely for insulting his integrity, offer him a bribe, whatever would get rid of him before Anthony Spinoza arrived. With a little luck, Pete’s attorney would be delayed long enough for her to deal with the famous all-pro’s justified, but still overblown ego. ![]() She shot a worried glance down the historic farmhouse’s long driveway, relieved to find it empty. Having no idea what was in Pete’s will, she couldn’t afford to do anything to jeopardize her guardianship of the girls-like going toe-to-toe with the Manhattan Marauders’ Outlaw Tight End right here on her brother-in-law’s front lawn. How the hell had Jake?Ī horrified groan rumbled deep in her chest. Without knowing her true identity, the various press publications flooding her blog’s inbox with requests for interviews had been stymied in their attempts to track her down physically. Gracie Gable fought the nearly overwhelming urge to take off running. Like pure, walking sin, Jake Malone closed the distance in a deceptively lazy saunter. ![]()
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