As the lot of students hurriedly left, I stayed behind. Face to face, our eyes catching and melding in the classroom’s hard light, I reached for E.L. Poison’s hand. One who presents a weak handshake is liquid; therefore, I rocked his palm and fingers with fierce alacrity; strong motion constructed between us; a very masculine dance. “A very interesting class,” I told him. “Thank you.”
He eyed me from head to toes and pressed his lips together, released, breathed. “And what an interesting student you are, Niall.” The firm handshake ended. His eyes studied my pumped chest, manly shoulders, and eventually my somewhat rugged face. “We’ve met before.”
I shook my head. “But we haven’t.” I lied. Of course, we had. Back in May at a book-signing over in Redder, one of Templeton’s sister towns. Po
