When he touches my elbow, sparks of electricity shoot up my arm. “Hey there, Brooke Wallace,” he says. His voice is low and deep, with just the right amount of gravel. He almost sounds like he’s growling. But he’d better not be growling. Not after he got me fired. I pull away from the sound of his voice and the scent of his skin. Dignity, Brooke. Hold onto it. Lifting my chin, I try to act stronger than I feel by a mile. Maybe two. “Hey there, back.” I want to be mad at the man, but his eyes are so soft and warm, I start thinking about butter. Butter for corn on the cob. The corn that cost me
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