“How is it a pretty girl like you is dining alone?”
Mirabelle looked up into a pair of bright green
eyes with a wince. Oh, Lord, now she’d have to make
polite chit-chat for the second time today. Only this
time, she also had to deal with the sudden tumble of
her belly and the way her pulse quickened beneath
his grass-green gaze. Not what she’d prepared for at all.
He grinned. “That’s quite a line, isn’t it?”
Stumbling to recover, she nodded. “Yes, indeed, it is.”
Low and resonating, his chuckle thrummed
through her, soothing down her nerves. Unable to resist the beckoning of
his warm smile, she gave in to a light laugh, and a little of the
tension hovering in the air dissipated. “I don’t recall if I introduced
myself to you in the taxicab, but I’m Kevin Porter.” He reached
across the table to shake her hand. With some difficulty due to the
crutches she’d propped up against the right side of the table, she
extended her hand. “Mirabelle Levange.” Clumsily, he half-grabbed her
fingers and squeezed them. Poor man. A successful
businessman, as he no doubt was, he must have
been expecting a full-palmed handshake. Instead,
here she sat, twit of the world, offering him a limp,
flaccid hand. Thoroughly shameful. Didn’t people
judge others by the firmness and quality of their
handshakes? Didn’t it mean something awful,
terrible even, when a person couldn’t give another
human being a full-bodied handshake? A flush crept
into her cheeks. Good grief, could this get any worse?
Judge Not
