I glance up, and there she is. The lemonade girl. Woman. Because there is nothing girlish about her. She carries herself with a confident ease, wearing soft, feminine curves like she invented them. And that voice? It’s the furthest thing from girlish. That voice is all grown-up. It’s not giddy or overly bright. It’s all honey and spice, smooth with a hint of heat—borderline sensual without even trying.
