Re: Press Table
"I know he doesn't fucking like you," she said, remembering herself enough to lower her voice and tuck her chin slightly, to avoid lip reading. "Which is why that was just really fucking stupid." It was worry talking, of course, and she would talk to Roger first thing in the morning, she told herself. She started to tell him that Roger was trying to find out who Robin was, but then he was talking again.
For someone who claimed to have no social graces, he managed to nail the delivery. She started to open her mouth, to tell him that she should go after Roger, but then he went on with the confession. The upturned palm did her in, or it would have, if he hadn't managed to win her over halfway through the sentence that had come before, and oh God, even she wasn't strong enough to resist. Even knowing it wasn't about her, that it was just about the child, she slipped her hand into his, and she looked into those silver-gray eyes with some hint of trepidation, the fear that he would change his mind between her taking his hand and the table. "After all that, I can hardly resist, can I?" she asked, her composure slipping back into place for the press, but something lingering in her eyes that said she wanted to be alone with him, wanted to talk to him alone.