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The saxophonist’s solo crescendoed, and with it, the tension between them rose. He stood, offering his hand. “May I?” he asked, his voice husky with anticipation.

He set down a glass, its surface catching the dim light, and poured a deep, crimson liquid that smelled of bitters, cherry, and something else—an intoxicating hint of vanilla. He slid the glass toward her, and with a graceful flick, the bar’s dim lighting seemed to pulse in time with the music.

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