Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t so hyper-aware of every movement Penelope makes. If I wasn’t already staring at her plump lips when she whispered, low value, or if I wasn’t admiring my watch around her wrist when she squeezed Rory’s arm. I shift my attention to Rory and start honing in on other things I chalked up to her quirkiness. And then I realize: the strumming of her fingers against the table isn’t a nervous habit; she’s fucking counting. “Blackjack!” she squeals again. This time, I don’t congratulate her. Instead, I drag my eyes up to meet Penelope’s and raise my brows.
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