Reaching up with his right hand, he grabbed my shoulder. I watched it happen in slow motion. The look of concern on his face, his muscular arm, tan from a summer at the lake, slowly rising with the open hand coming toward me, I didn’t know what to expect. Would it be wonderful, like the cool hand shake? Or painful, like the hand on my back? If I thought hard enough, I could still feel the place where the touch of his finger burned my neck.
Amazingly, I knew it was going to be good. As that hand came toward me, I felt the sensation of expectation throughout the upper left side of my body, goose bumps rising before he even made contact with me. Something told me I was going to have to be very careful around Wax Spencer.
“Do you want to come in? We have iced tea.”
I wanted to slug her, but he’d have seen so I just stayed quiet.
“No thanks. My team waits for me,” he said pointing over his shoulder toward his house. “But I hope you’ll ask me again soon.”
Then he looked at me, raptly in my eyes. “Tomorrow at eight, correct?”
Speechless, I nodded my head.
Excerpt from Mademoiselle by Suzanne Jenkins
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