Franklin rose, lithe and poised, from the chair. He turned
toward me and offered a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Tate.”
Tate? Nobody had called me Tate except for my father and the
assholes in high school. One-Date Tate. The nickname and the curse followed me
like a perpetual shadow through most of my academic career.
I would’ve corrected him, but when his full mug came into
view, my tongue curled up and shriveled. My IQ dropped thirty points. Again, I
quickly averted my eyes. I had no choice. They threatened to pop out of my
head. There was good looking and there was gorgeous. This man played in a
league that put both of them to shame. “Pleasure meeting you,” I managed to
stutter. With grace comparable to a drunk college freshman, I grasped his hand
and gave it one good shake. When I tried to pull away, he squeezed tighter and
caressed a thumb across my knuckles.
My girlie parts twitched. No joke. I needed to leave before
I left a puddle of desire on the floor between my feet. Holy cow, I’d never
been affected in such a way.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Franklin tilted his head as if
inviting me to admire him.
Nope. No way. I would not look into those eyes again. The
way my body reacted, I’d end up sprawled naked across the desk with a rose
between my teeth. I reclaimed my hand and jetted through the door.
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