Chapter Seventeen
Doris’s cheeks burned as if she’d spent a day at the beach. Why did she have to blush at the smallest provocation? The crow was a welcome disturbance. If Ron’s expression were any indication, he intended to kiss her. She touched her lips. Gaze fixed on her mouth, his eyes had darkened to a glittering cobalt.
Mouth dry and heart throbbing, she blinked. Get hold of yourself, Doris. He’s a cliché. Tall, dark, and handsome. Granted, he’s no Cary Grant, but he gives the actor a run for his money with his dimpled chin, broad shoulders, and rugged appearance. Sharp wit and intelligence sweetened the package.
How many girls had he taken out or kissed in the months since arriving in England? The British girls were starved for affection, weren’t they? Their men were off at war.
