“I wish I had your fingers,” Clem said on a breath. “As your own?” Rowley asked. “Or”—he gave a bright glance up—“for your benefit? Because you are absolutely welcome to the latter.” Clem wasn’t quite sure what that meant for a second, and then all became clear. “Oh!” “Not that my fingers are terribly appealing at work,” Rowley added, as calm as if Clem weren’t blushing dark.
