It was a Flook.

She suddenly hoped her cheeks were warm from too much sun and not from the fact that he was sitting next to her. That’s when he turned and stared pensively at her hands.

“I like your hands,” he said. “They’re smart hands, delicate but sure. Like that flower right there. It knows it’s suppose to be there, it has a right to be there, and it holds itself high. But one mislaid step, and I fear it will be crushed.”

“Are you planning on stepping on my hands, sir?”

“I should hope not. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t ever step on your heart.”

Such words from him made the sun beat down harder on her cheeks. “I barely know you, though. In fact, I don’t know you at all.”

He smirked and held out his hand. “I beg your pardon, miss. I suppose I saw the empty seat and felt it was best for me to occupy it. My name is Albert Flook.”

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