Boy next door, Seth Peterson, kicks the hotel door shut with the heel of one leather shoe. The sun is already rising over the southern Spanish coast, casting a warm gold shimmer across the room. He pauses at the window, sweeps the hair out of his eyes, and lets the sea breeze cool the heat still lingering on his skin. Last night had been a blur of music, drinks, and bodies pressed a little too close. He smiled to himself charming, cocky, just this side of dangerous. His suit still looks sharp, even rumpled. Blue plaid with just enough boldness to stand out, white shirt unbuttoned low, and that cowboy belt Texas meets Malaga. A little laugh escapes him. He knows he looks good. Hell, he always looks good. Seth peels off the shirt, slowly, watching himself in the mirror.
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