Before he releases my fingers, he gives them a gentle squeeze . . . three times. My breath stills in my chest as my pulse roars through my veins. Three squeezes. It’s what my parents used to do to tell me they loved me. Is that what he’s doing? When his eyes connect with mine, from the forlorn expression in them, I know that’s exactly what he’s doing. Three squeezes . . . he loves me.
