When Alex met Sally…
I wasn't all that crazy about meeting her. It wasn't that I didn't like her paintings. I guess I was afraid she wouldn't meet my expectations. Then she walked in. She was tallish, and her hair was a sort of palomino blond, cut in a blunt bob that swung past her shoulders. She wore scuffed-up knee-high boots and these really tight, beat-up jeans. Sally French was the sexiest woman I'd ever seen.
When Sally met Alex…
He was very tall, and standing so close I had to crane my head up. How old was he, anyway? Twenty, twenty-two? Much too young! He was leaning forward. A shock of hair the color of wheat tipped over his forehead. I almost reached to brush it back, then caught myself. This wasn't me. I shouldn't be here, drinking Scotch with Alex Langley, wanting to touch his face. I should be home, alone, making love to a canvas. A very modern love story that breaks every…Taboo.