"Hands Off"

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Les should have known better than to bet against Jenna on football. She grew up in a house where kickoff was church. But the Patriots were favored by six and a half, he'd had two beers, and she was wearing that smirk. The terms were his idea: winner tells the loser what to do for a month. He expected chores. Maybe a rival jersey. Instead, Jenna — a scientist who believes in clear operational definitions — slides a typed contract across the kitchen table. Clause One: for thirty days, Les cannot touch her. Not a kiss, not a hand-hold, not the small of her back passing in the kitchen. Clause Two: she can direct his hands anywhere she likes, whenever she likes. She points; he gets to it. There's a signature line. There are two. She's a professional. What follows is the strangest, best month of his life: a war of escalation between a classics professor with rebellious hands and the woman collecting data on exactly how much he loves her. Because Jenna didn't want a month of tasks. She wanted a month of attention. And she's about to find out what happens when a man is forced to say out loud everything his hands have been saying automatically for a year. A complete steamy romantic comedy novella. No cliffhangers — just a contract, a notary stamp, and a question worth going down on one knee for.