Elsa batted her eyelashes at me, which worked out much better than it did in teenage movies. In chick flicks or romantic comedies, the inept teenage girl always looked as though she had smeared an entire tube of mascara on her lashes. In the last movie I had watched, the way the female lead blinked clumsily had only made her look like she was trying to swat a mosquito hovering around her face, instead of having its intended seductive effect. Elsa was certainly much more adept—she restrained herself to a couple of slow blinks, which had the expected effect of getting my heart racing. Just why was she acting all flirty? Could it be that she was about to come on to me?
Step by step, she advanced toward me, her hips swinging in a mesmerizing, swaying manner that held the promise of more.
The
