Free Love Spell by Stan Crowe

her surprise, he actually reached for them as well. As soon as her hand neared his, however, he jerked his arm back as if she’d dumped a pan of scalding water on the limb.
    Don’t tell me you still think girls have cooties , she wondered bitterly. She savored the bitterness; it helped keep her mind off the fact that she couldn’t quite breathe properly.
    Her papers gathered, she sucked in a breath that sounded too ragged to belong to any real woman, and charged around the corner and into her office. Shame scorched her face, and she unintentionally slammed the door behind her. She dropped back against the door and switched to “hyperventilation mode.” Dealing with yesterday’s eviction notice was easier than handling the sudden reappearance of… that man. No, he wasn’t a man. Men helped fainted women from the floor, and didn’t leave them to pick up the mess they’d caused.
    Oh, heaven forbid that a woman’s hand might ever touch yours , she thought. Not as if you even deserve it.
    There would be no thinking about the smile he flashed when he first locked his eyes on her. No thinking about the eyes at all. Or that light touch of cologne, the same he’d worn even back in high school.
    The rap on the door made her jump.
    “Hello?” came his muffled voice. She pressed a hand to her chest to see if she could still feel her heart.
    “I’m not here!” When had her voice begun to sound like a rat’s?
    “Er… yeah,” he said. “Well, can you tell me when someone might be in? I was hoping to hire them.”
    Lindsay’s eyes widened at the word “hire,” and a strange demon possessed her to whirl around and fling the door open. There he was, staring quizzically at her. Without the slightest bit of permission, her eyes traveled the length of his frame, from the shockingly shredded Giants t-shirt (do not look at the face!) to the matching jeans over… worn loafers? With one blue and one khaki sock.
    Still cannot dress himself. Check , she thought.
    And yet, she must treat all clients in a professional manner.
    Even if they’re scum in loafers. Even if I don’t want them.
    And so she pasted on her most professional mask, complete with a wan, but welcoming smile. Her posture auto-corrected itself, and her head tilted slightly to the side, and back. He looked better seen down the length of her nose. In return, he put on a stupid half grin. He posted a hand on the doorframe and leaned slightly toward her as he engaged her eyes. Several seconds passed. Or was it twenty minutes? She had no idea. Did it matter?
    He wiped at the corners of his mouth. “Do I still have lunch on my face?”
    She ignored the question and retreated to the comparative safety of her desk. Battling to maintain steady breathing and a semblance of professional composure, she flew through a mindless checklist of activities: quickly login to the computer; pointedly ignore the scum client; bring up her official case tracking forms.
    “Please, sit—” she began to say. But he was already perched in the chair opposite her, seeming to fill her office ominously as he reached across the desk and took a mint from the candy dish. She pursed her lips at his audacity in taking free candy without asking. Never mind that it was there for guests. Never mind she was being silly. Lindsay would ignore his rudeness. This would be an excellent test of her professional mettle. If she could treat this… person… with maturity and courtesy, she could do it with anyone .
    “Good afternoon, sir. My name is Miss Sullivan, chief investigator here at Sullivan and… Self… Private Investigators. May I ask what brings you here today?”
    He flashed a goblinesque smile. “Is ‘Self’ a partner, or do you multitask that well? Pretty efficient to be both the boss and the secretary. I’m impressed.”
    That remark was allowed to pass. She knew better than to expect intelligence and grace from him. Carry on, Lindsay , she calmly told herself.
    “And how did you