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When the lights go out in the hall – and the other viewers’ attention turns to the screen – Shea furtively puts her palm on the armrest, then touches my fingers, as if unintentionally. I gently nudge my hand toward him. He covers it with his hand and squeezes it lightly but surely.

I cover my eyes and wait. Maybe I’m just not listening well enough – and things are actually clicking?

Apparently not, because within five minutes the events of the movie are already gripping me head-on – and until the closing credits, I have no recollection of Shea’s hand or our crossed fingers. And even after the lights come on, I pull my hand out rather instinctively, as I always do when I feel eyes on us in the back of my head.

– Does it always bother you that much? – he wondered as we got into his car from the hall. It’s almost eleven, I’m tired, and we’ve agreed that tonight is just a movie, even if his masculine instinct to feed his woman comes back into play.

– What are you talking about?

– Margo…” He shakes his head a little judiciously. – You understood perfectly.