“Maybe you just have slippery hands. Lemme see.” He reaches for my palm, and I start to smile as I let him hold my hand while he drives. Really, we press fingertips to fingertips, and slowly, his fingertips glide down my palm with featherlight affectionate touch. It’s electric, tingling my veins, and my breath catches in the quiet. “Verdict?” I ask. “More soft than slippery. Your phone definitely fucked you.”
