She reached across the table to emphasize a point about the thrust-to-weight ratio, her hand landing firmly over mine. Her skin was warm, a searing contrast to the cool condensation on my wine glass.
I didn't pull away. I didn't even stiffen. Instead, I felt a strange, blurred sense of contentment wash over me, a feeling so foreign it felt like a bug in my programming. I reached for my phone with my free hand. I knew the consequences. I knew the PR team back in New York would have an absolute meltdown. I didn't care.
I snapped a picture. It was a "stolen" shot, her hand draped over mine, our fingers not quite intertwined but making undeniable, heavy contact. The background was the blurred, dark mahogany of the jazz bar, shadows dancing over our skin. I posted it instantly to my main acco
