Jax closes the binder. He pushes it back across the table.
"Okay," he says. "I’ve got the stats. But this isn't going to work."
"Why not? The data is comprehensive."
"Because it’s a script, Max," Jax says. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the sticky table. "If I go in there reciting facts aboutTosca, they’re going to smell fear. But more importantly... they’re going to watchyou."
"Me?"
"Your body language," Jax says. "You’re stiff. You hold yourself like you’re wearing a wire. If we’re supposed to be in love—or at least, in lust—you have to look like you want me within a five-mile radius."
"I am perfectly capable of simulating proximity," I say defensively.
"Are you?" Jax challenges. "Give me your hand."
I hesitate. "Why?"
"Just do it."
I slowly extend my hand across the table. I hold it out flat, palm open.
Jax looks at it. He raises an eyebrow.
"Max, you’re offering me a handshake. You look like you’re closing a merger, not a date."
He reaches out. He doesn't shake my hand. He slides his fingers through mine, interlacing them. His palm is warm, rough with calluses. He rests our joined hands on the table, his thumb brushing lazily against the pulse point of my wrist.
Current shoots up my arm.
"See the difference?" Jax asks softly. "A handshake is a contract. This... this is aclaim."
I stare at our hands. My skin looks pale and smooth against his tan, scarred knuckles. It looks... right.
"You have to relax," Jax murmurs. He squeezes my hand, testing the resistance. "You’re locking your wrist. Stop fighting me."
"I am not fighting," I whisper. "I am... calibrating."
"Calibrate faster."
He shifts in the booth. He slides his leg forward until his knee bumps mine under the table. He leaves it there. A steady, warm pressure.
"If your mother says something mean," Jax says, his thumb still stroking my wrist, "you’re going to want to pull away. You’re going to want to retreat into the Ice Fortress. But you can't. You have to lean into me."
"Lean into you," I repeat. My mouth is dry.
"Yeah. Like this."
He tugs on my hand, pulling me slightly closer across the table.
"When I touch you," Jax says, his voice dropping to that low, scratchy register, "don't flinch. Don't stiffen. Just... let me have it."
I look up at him. The neon sign in the window reflects in his hazel eyes. He isn't looking at me like a colleague, or a co-conspirator. He is looking at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
"I can do that," I manage to say.
"Good," Jax says. "Because if you freeze up on me in front of the shrimp cocktail, I’m going to have to do something drastic to sell it."
"Drastic?"
