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le in any way and he's just made it easy for me to deal with
the potential embarrassment of having to ask him not to look at me in
that way.
I can trust him. I feel it. And I want him desperately. But nothing
can ever come of it because I'm a little kid no matter what I feel like
and he's a grownup man, more than double my age and I don't care because
I just want him so bad I can almost cry.
"Want some more juice?"
"Uh, oh -- no, thanks." And I spot the book he described. It's on
the top shelf. I stretch on tiptoes toward it, but at 140 centimeters,
it's just beyond my fingertips.
"Here, I'll get that." He steps up behind me and reaches over me to
grab the book. I automatically settle back flatfooted and turning and my
hips brushes his thigh. I shiver at the contact.
He hands me the book. "Are you alright?"
"Oh, sure," I lie. "Just a little cold."
"I noticed," he says quickly and then blushes. "Sorry," he mutters
and
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