"Elishka," she replied, leaning an elbow on the bar. "And since you're stranded in hostile territory, I feel obligated to warn you. The house special tastes like battery acid mixed with regret."
She was nursing a crisp cider when he sat down two stools away. He was effortlessly handsome—the kind of "hottie" who didn’t seem to know it. He had messy dark hair, a light dusting of stubble, and a laugh that carried a genuine, low-timbered warmth.
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