I start to pull my hand away, but he grabs it before I can retreat, and I suck in a startled breath at the feel of his warm fingers against my palm. “Georgiana.” I swallow. “Yeah.” “I’m sorry. About the other day. I’m not . . . I’m not good at this.” “At what?” He looks away. “Talking with women. I mean, I’m great with clients, I can hold my own with cocktail party small talk, but this thing with us . . . it’s different. I don’t know what to do with you. I can’t decide. . . .”
