The Truth About Harry. Tracy Kelleher
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‘Soup Kitchens Facing Shortage Of Food.’”
She skimmed through the pages. “Everybody thinks the holidays are so great, but for some people, it’s just more hardship. At least the story on the soup kitchen generated some interest—they called me to let me know a supermarket chain made a large donation in response. Kind of makes the beat worthwhile after all.”
She closed the notebook and for the first time glanced over at Sebastian and noticed that he was staring at her. His mouth, that incredibly sensuous mouth, was slightly open, and the top ridge of his bottom teeth exposed. “What? Do I have something on my nose or something?” She reached up but didn’t feel anything more than the little bump on one side, the result of having fallen out of the top bunk at a sleepover party when she was nine. Her mother was forever suggesting that she apply concealer to mask it.
“It’s not so much your nose as your eyes, your expression. You don’t even realize how you telegraph every emotion—frustration, modesty, pride, tenderness.” Sebastian studied her some more, shifting his head first one way and then the other.
Wow, frustration, modesty, pride—let alone tenderness—were not the emotions that immediately came to the fore. And if he could read her thoughts that easily, well, he’d figured out that embarrassment was following hard on the heels of lust. “I guess I shouldn’t play poker then,” she stammered.
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