Then their fingers interlocked tightly.
"Do you remember you once said—" Julian Fairchild's voice was slow and gentle, as if his thoughts were entangled with memories, turning his words tender yet resolute.
He gazed into Maeve Lane's eyes, his voice low and hoarse, "When our fingers interlock, you feel that you really like me, now—"
"Do you still feel that way?"
Maeve's heart seemed to skip a beat, and her steady breathing became a bit uneven.
[Hold my hand, Julian Fairchild.]
[Am I not holding it right now?]
[You're pulling my hand, there's a difference between pulling and holding hands.]
[What's the difference?]
The voice in the memory seemed a bit ethereal, with a hint of indulgence. Girls always have quirky ways of thinking, turning white into black and black into white.
[Pulling the hand is like this, look, and holding the hand is like this... fingers interlocked.]
