Destination Love. Gwynne Forster

       There’s so much that I don’t understand about men. Weeks ago, I would have dismissed Wright’s behavior right now as arrogance. After being with him these days, I suspect it’s a phenomenon of the male psyche. If males among wild animals protect their turf from other males, why shouldn’t the human male? Why can’t they find a way to do it without seeming to establish ownership? I like Wright a lot, but I don’t want him to be possessive with me. If my dad would get his head out of those books long enough to be a sympathetic and loving father, I could ask him about it. I wonder if he’d know what I was talking about.

      “You’ve become pensive,” Wright said. “Is there anything wrong?” He gripped her shoulder with his left hand.

      “We agree that I’m not as worldly as I may seem. I’m trying to add things up, and that isn’t easy.”

      “I know you’re not as sophisticated as outward appearances suggest. I get more evidence of that almost by the hour. Ready to go? I need some time in my room before dinner. Can we meet at the same place and time?”

      “I’d like that.”

      He got up, lifted her from the high stool and set her on her feet. “I would have kissed you, but you had the fear of hell on your face, scared to death that I would.” He laughed and hugged her. “Never worry. My good sense rarely deserts me.”