The motion brings that scent full into my nostrils again: caramelizing butter, winter-green, the acid tang of lemon juice, sweat and smoke, and man. Lots of man.
I'm frazzled enough that I don't realize he's offering me the pen until a few dumb seconds pass in which his hand is just hovering in the air between us.
In fact, I'm so frazzled that, when I still don't take it, Andrew grabs my wrist, forces my hand open palm-up, and sets the pen there.
He lets go quickly, but the five points of contact where his fingers touched my bare skin stay sizzling for a while afterward.
I swallow and try to gather my wits about me again. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you really want me around," I mumble, a half-assed attempt at retreating behind quippy banter again.
He doesn't bite. "Just sign the contract, Ms. Jones."
I pick up the folder, but I don't open it yet. "Is this your money or company money?"
"Does it matter?"
