Before he takes a seat, he scoots his chair closer to mine and then sits down, only to place his hand on my bare thigh. I nearly choke on my tortellini. “Problem?” he asks. “Your, uh, your hand is on my thigh.” “And . . .” “Is it supposed to be there?” I ask as I stare at his gorgeous smirk. “As a matter of fact, it is.” He stabs some tortellini with his fork and sticks it in his mouth. Okay . . . I guess his hand is on my thigh then.
