Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Three by Lydia Rowan Page B

said.
    “Always,” she responded.
    She wasn’t sure what else to say. During his visits, he’d usually notice that something was broken or cheap, and while she didn’t think he intended the observations as criticisms, they still stung. She had no illusions; her place wasn’t glamorous, or even nice really, but it was hers, and she took pride in it. Others—him actually, since she’d so rarely had guests—might see the small confines, cheap furniture, cramped space, and feel pity, but Julie saw freedom and independence, proof that, as meager as it was, she had carved out a life for herself.
    As the silence stretched, she felt the air in the room change, energize. His hands were loosely wrapped around the mug, strong and still, much like the rest of him. That stillness was one of the things Julie had first noticed, and admired, about him. She tended to fidget, reveal the swirling thoughts in her head, her discomfort with herself and with other people, through errant movements, smoothing her shirt, playing with the ends of her hair or, as she did now, rolling a spoon or some other utensil from hand to hand.
    Not him though. His every movement was deliberate, precise, each action fluid and smooth, and when at rest, he was as serene as the unbroken surface of a lake. Graceful was the most fitting word, but it seemed too small to fully encompass the tightly controlled yet fluidly sure presence of his large, powerful body. Whatever she called it, it was a stark contrast to her awkwardness, but it made her want him. Every time, it made her want him.
     
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Copyright
     
    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are invented by the author or used fictitiously. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
     
    Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Three
    Copyright © 2014 by Lydia Rowan. All rights reserved.