Gemotions

The scent of honeysuckle filled the air as she opened the door. It was Mr. Evans, his face flushed, a small trowel in his hand. “I was wondering,” he began, his voice a touch unsteady, “if I could plant some tomatoes along the edge of your property.”

A peculiar heat flushed through her, starting at her neck and spreading downwards. She found herself unable to look away from his eyes, which seemed a deeper shade of blue than usual. Her fingers, she noticed, were twisting in the fabric of her shirt.

“Yes,” she heard herself say, the word coming out a little strangled. “Of course. That would be… perfect.” A shiver ran down her spine, leaving her suddenly, inexplicably invigorated.