I can’t help but notice the signs of physical labor on his hands. There’s a coarseness to them. Calloused on the palms, the odd scar on the backs. One nail with the dark-blue tinge of a deep bruise. Yeah, this man works with his hands. I swallow quickly and follow suit, lifting my glass to the middle of the table. “Cheers. To limes.” Bash gives his head a slight shake before lifting his glass and clinking it against mine. “To limes.”
