The Matchmaker's Sister. Karen Toller Whittenburg
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But he knew he hadn’t imagined the attraction. Or the subtle blush still lingering in her cheeks. He felt the attraction now, was reasonably sure she was feeling it, too. And she didn’t seem the type to be nervous about dancing with a man, even if he wasn’t exactly the Prince Charming she might have had in mind.
On the other hand…there was her palm maintaining a curious, if not completely unreasonable, distance between them.
And then it hit him.
The stain on his shirt bothered her. She either didn’t want to come into contact with it or she felt afraid of making it worse if she did. He had to restrain a ridiculous grin from eating up his entire face. Either reason was perfectly acceptable to him as utterly, unexpectedly charming. She was worried about the stupid stain and it was all she could do to be out here dancing, instead of inside, at one sink or another, scrubbing salmon juice out of his shirt.
He stopped in midstep. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking her hand and turning toward the house. “But I can’t concentrate on anything except getting that club soda on this shirt.”
Her relief was instant and companionable. “I was thinking the same thing. The longer it sets, the harder it will be to get out.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he replied, intrigued by the warmth in her hand and completely captivated by the smile in her eyes.
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