“Thank you.” He took a long swig of the cold beverage. What he really needed was a cold shower, or to have a bucket of ice water dumped on him to douse the fire this man just ignited. Jonathan Gilchrist looked like he was in his early thirties. Short, dark hair that was kept neatly combed—he probably used hair gel—blue eyes that Harry could easily fall into, and a muscular chest; the man definitely worked out. He had a treasure trail Harry wouldn’t have minded following.
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