25
Midori stood in the doorway and stared, transfixed, at the hand on Guy’s arm. The first time she’d seen Michel’s wife, she’d had her hand on his arm in the same way. It had been a light touch, not possessive. Her arm hadn’t been looped under his elbow. Her fingers hadn’t been curled and dug into his bicep. Her fingertips had dusted his shirtsleeve.
When Midori had been out with Guy on their tour of Broadway, they’d held hands. He’d pressed his palm against hers, seeking a firm connection. He’d curled his fingers until the webbing between each of his digits made contact with each of hers. It’d been firm, possessive.
This morning, he’d held her lightly, brushing his fingertips softly down her back. When she’d awakened, she’d burrowed into his chest and spanned her hands across the plan
