Actually, there is a parsley root variety. The smell is more vibrant, though, and it looks like a white carrot.”
She starts pulling her other hand from mine. Not happening. I squeeze it, keeping my fingers tightly wrapped around hers.
“Um. I need that hand,” she mumbles, looking down at our hands.
“No, you don’t.”
Her perfect eyebrows rise in question. “Because?”
“Because you have two,” I growl.
This hand is mine. She offered it to me freely, and I’m not releasing it unless it’s absolutely necessary. One day, maybe she’ll allow me to touch more than just her hand, but for now, this has to be enough.
“All right.” The corners of her lips tilt upward. Slowly, she brings the bunch she’s holding up and brushes its leaves under my nose. “Parsley. Smell.”
The elderly man in a checked shir
