“Dipping my sticky glove into the bowl, I grabbed a handful of fingers. That’s five, if you’re counting.”

“It’s the person you are inside that counts and you’re beautiful. You’re beautiful outside, too, but that’s not what’s got to me.” He put his hand over my heart, “This has.”

“He grabbed the count's hand to check his pulse, and I held my breath. The count wouldn't have a pulse. Or a heartbeat. Or a breath.”

“If that’s all you’ve got, I’m not too worried,” he taunted me. I dipped my hand in the wet sand, grabbing a handful. I slowly raised it above his head threatening to release it. Before I even noticed, he caught my wrist and pulled it back down. Holding my eyes, he delicately threaded his fingers through mine, while the wet sand squished out. The gesture was somehow very intimate and a shiver ran down my spine. The wet sand ran down my arm but I didn’t even notice. We stayed like that, hand in hand, facing the ocean for what seemed like hours.”

“I have so many friends I couldn’t even count them on one hand—not even if I had six fingers. Now, if I had seven fingers, I could count on them, but I still wouldn’t be able to count on my friends.”

“I love the juice but I loathe sticky fingers. Clean hands, Sansa. Whatever you do, make certain your hands are clean.”