Love Me Not, Mr. Snow
As he emerged, we rode the elevator down together in silence, my hands growing increasingly sweaty with each passing floor.
During the car ride, I found myself rubbing my clammy hands on my skirt, my mind painting a vivid, embarrassing image of standing in front of everyone with a sweat-soaked skirt. I shook my head, scolding my brain for coming up with the silliest, most mortifying thoughts. I could feel Mr. Snow's concerned glance on me, and I knew I was radiating nervousness like a beacon.
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