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Writer's pictureAbilene Potts

Not Valentines

Seriously.


Holly knocked, stepping in. She had expected clear sailing to the client chairs on the far wall and almost face-planted into a maroon-sweatered man chest. Above the brawny torso camped a shaved and handsome head.


The statuesque man stared, probably because she’d removed her eye makeup, smeared from the snowball, and now her eyes were naked. His were green—more evergreen than kryptonite, color-wise. They were steady, self-assured, and maybe a little selfless. She couldn’t back out of them.


“Holly!” Vicki’s champagne-bubbly voice carried from her seat across the room. “This is my son, Jacob. Jacob, meet the best nurse ever.”


“Not a nurse.” She held out her hand. When his warm hand encased hers, she was glad she had gotten the words out first.


“I’m not her son. Found her in the street.” He gave a side nod to his mother. “Clearly a mental health case. Do you do that here—help crazy people?”


A glance at Vicki, beaming brighter than usual under her feathery gray and brown hair, confirmed she was enjoying her son’s joke, so she played along.


“Absolutely.” Her face was deadpan, her body, not so much. “If you want her committed, there’s a ton of paperwork.” By dropping Jacob’s electric hand, she had cut off the cable to temptation. Now she just needed the sparks on her skin to die out.


“Commitment’s good.” His voice was charged, too.

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