She lifted a hand to her ear and cupped it as if she were hard of hearing. “What was that? I couldn’t quite make it out.” “You heard me.” He wasn’t smiling now, but his lips twitched. “You’ll have to forgive me, it sounded like you need…” “Help!” He reached out and grabbed the dish towel in her hand and pulled her close. He took the towel and dropped it on the counter and then laced his fingers between hers in a gesture as familiar as if he did it every day. “There. I need your help. Are you satisfied?” Maggie glanced down at their hands. Her breathing felt oddly constricted, and she pulled her hand out of his, patted her upper chest and coughed. “Okay, then, I’ll help you,” she said. She turned away from him and led the way back into the sun room. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Me? I’m fine,” she lied. A pot of honey and an army of fire ants would not get her to admit that she’d about keeled over when he grabbed her hand. After twenty-something years, he shouldn’t have that sort of impact on her.
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