Gone was the scruffy veterinarian, with a face in need of shaving and hands in need of washing. He was clad in a splendid black evening jacket—a bit loose in the chest now, thanks to his leaner existence in Moraig, but the very sort of jacket he should have been wearing during that memorable dance so many months ago, and which she had begun to doubt he owned. His hair had not been trimmed, as she had ordered, but it was combed into respectability. Her fingers itched to touch the rakishly long edges, there over his ears, and a selfish part of her soul was glad to see it had not been shorn after all.
His eyes met …
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