At His Fingertips. Dawn Atkins

you know you’re right, don’t you?” She was startled by how quickly her response to him had changed. She went from attraction to hope to irritation to anger with lightning speed.

      “No more than you do.”

      “You think that by helping others I neglect myself and what I really want? Is that what you think?”

      He shrugged.

      “I can assure you that’s not what’s happening.” She hated how defensive she sounded. She was usually calm and patient and balanced in her remarks.

      “You would be in a position to know.”

      “And I do know,” she snapped, then caught herself “Why am I arguing with you?” She sagged, frustrated and upset and so maddeningly hot for the man.

      “I don’t know. Frankly, I’m in no position to criticize. My sofa’s got a permanent sag from my brother sleeping there, my remote is stained orange from his Cheetos, and I’m here doing his homework.”

      She laughed lightly. “So, you’re a soft touch, too?”

      “Just ask my secretary.”

      “I don’t know why I’m so defensive,” she said. “Maybe it’s because I know you don’t approve of me.”

      “Maybe I just don’t understand you.” He was being kind.

      She appreciated the gesture, but couldn’t quite let it stand. “And what you do understand, you disagree with.”

      “Not…exactly.” He rolled his shoulder. “We’ve got détente. Let’s leave it at that, why don’t we?”

      “You’re right. After you cut up the star fruit, maybe you can help me arrange the furniture?” And during the meteor shower, maybe he’d sense their cosmic bond and they could get past butting heads.

      Right, and maybe Huffington and Pistol would do a minuet on the kitchen table.