Teaser Tuesday: After Always by Barbara J. Hancock

“It was a long time ago. We’ll probably never know,” Michael said. “I don’t believe in ghosts in spite of what my mother says. She’s fascinated by the Jerichos’ doomed romance. I just change the light bulbs. Help Mrs. Brighton. Gather clams.” He brought his attention from the horizon back to the boat and the oars. “We’ll row out to the marsh beyond the bridge. You can only reach it when the tide is high. We’ll dig as it falls and return before it drops too low,” Michael continued.

He was back to basics. Acting as if he was ful lling Mrs. Brighton’s request with no personal interest whatsoever. But there was a tension in him that seemed attuned to the tension in me. It was like we both would rather forget the clam dig, maybe forget everything else, and just be with each other. Imagining what might happen if we did that made my tension rise. He was entirely too approachable. There was

something warm and inviting about him even when he tried to act like the last thing in the world he wanted was to take my hand or… He didn’t fool me. And I couldn’t fool myself, either. Not when I noticed every twitch of his lips and every ick of his eyelashes that indicated he was keeping track of my every move even when he pretended not to.

Michael wasn’t Tristan. Things could be different with him, maybe, if I was brave enough to try.

I became a tingling statue of me in a rowboat when it hit me: He was kissable. Really kissable. His lower lip was a little fuller than his upper lip, and suddenly noticing that slight swell made me crazy. He wasn’t just kissable. I wanted to kiss him. My stomach swooped with the thought, and my own mouth went dry. I bit my lip, hard, to remind myself I wasn’t going to do it. Brave or not brave, there was no way I was going to attack a guy I’d basically just met when he was only innocently preparing a boat for launch. When Michael was ready, he nodded toward the boat with no verbal encouragement. I scrambled in hoping my thoughts didn’t show. He thought I’d rejected his friendship when we’d talked on the cliff. I guess it had seemed like a rejection when I’d wanted to walk alone after the stunning electricity of his ngers touching my hand. Closer to the truth was that I’d been too overwhelmed to handle wanting his touch to go on. And on…

*****

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Barbara J. Hancock lives in a cabin in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains with her many rescued pets and the guy who lured her into the wilderness with promises of lots of peace and quiet for writing. To this day, the Appalachian wildwood is the best gift she’s ever been given. Her favorite pastime (besides animal rescue) is bringing darkly romantic stories to life by firefly light.

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