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“Rose looked down to the sheet of paper, saw a number and where to sign. Butch was holding out a pen for her to take. When she reached for the pen her fingers grazed lightly against his. She felt it. She saw it. The tiniest arc of electricity. It was as if flint and steel met, just waiting for the right moment to spark the dry tinder into a burning inferno.” — Grace Willows
Rose looked down to the sheet of paper, saw a number and where to sign. Butch was holding out a pen for her to take. When she reached for the pen her fingers grazed lightly against his. She felt it. She saw it. The tiniest arc of electricity. It was as if flint and steel met, just waiting for the right moment to spark the dry tinder into a burning inferno.