Page 34 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
Mark, I remind myself. You’re doing this to help another guy.
Gesturing for her to sit, I settle myself on the edge of the bench, leaving plenty of room for her to sit nowhere near me. Just as I hoped, she takes the other end.
I smirk at her. “Today’s lesson is about the hand flex.”
Her face immediately turns red, though she tries to hide it by shaking her hair over her shoulders and keeping her gaze straight ahead. “What hand flex?”
She knows exactly what I’m talking about. I inch a little closer. “You know. Mr. Darcy helps Elizabeth Bennett into the carriage and touches her hand.”
Though she sits stiffly, she does her best to sound aloof. (She fails.) “I recall the scene.”
I scoot closer. “Then you’ll recall the moment right after that.” It really is fortunate that I saw the movie just yesterday, and there were moments in the other things I watched that reinforced my point. Long glances, almost-touches, brief moments of contact that would be insignificant or ignored today.
I hold my hand out in front of her, waiting until she looks at it, and then I stretch my fingers out wide.
“Funny,” I murmur, “how much a little touch can feel so big.”
Her breath catches, which means she is fully understanding where I’m going with this. I fight a grin and turn my hand over so my palm is up, like I’m waiting for her to take my hand.
“When you think about it, physical contact is something so important when it comes to relationships. We hug people we care about. Shake hands when we meet someone new. We show affection with a kiss.” I let those words linger for a moment, enjoying her blush as I lean in closer. “And when we want to be close to someone, we hold their hand.”
Just as she reaches for my hand, I pull it back and tuck both my hands between my knees. “So here’s your assignment,” I say at a normal volume, fixing my eyes on the painting.
Brooklyn sounds a little breathless when she says, “Assignment? You’re giving me homework?”
“More like a pop quiz.” I look at her and almost burst into laughter because she’s scowling at me like I just gave her legitimate homework. “Okay, calm down. I promise this will help you. Do you want to learn to flirt or not?”
She seems to genuinely consider that for a moment. “Fine. You are the master, after all.”
I shift once more in my seat so we’re only a few inches apart now. “Yes, I am,” I agree, but only because flirting is too much fun not to do it. Being honest and complimentary has always brought a lot of joy to my life and to the people around me. “Now, listen carefully.”
I already know I’m going to regret this, but I proceed anyway.
“Catching a man’s interest is easy. You’re beautiful and kind, and you bring light into any room you enter. Keeping a man’s interest requires subtlety. Intention.”
She folds her arms, though she is redder than ever after my quick assessment of her. “Meaning?”
I rest my hand on the bench between us, not quite close enough to touch her. “Meaning you need to learn to tease, Queens. To make a man desperate for your touch because he knows it isn’t easily earned. You need to drive him mad with desire.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
I nod toward my hand. “If you wanted to hold my hand right now, what would you do?”
Rolling her eyes, she keeps her own hands safely tucked away. “I don’t want to hold your hand, Jordan.” Her lips twitch, pulling inward in the way they always do when she lies.
My heart kicks up a little faster, but I ignore it. “Pretend.”
She sighs. “I guess I would make sure my hand is easily available.” She sits back, leaning her hands behind her and resting her right hand just an inch from mine.
“Good. That’s a great start. Now, say I was focused on this painting and not paying attention to your signs. What then?” I turn to the painting, though I keep as much of my focus on her as I can.
She considers my question, looking down at our hands and back up to my face, and then she puts her hand over the top of mine.
I glance down. “Oh, sorry.” Then I sit up straighter and put my hand on my thigh instead, returning my gaze to the painting.
Brooklyn groans. “What did I do wrong?”
“Subtlety,” I repeat. “Isn’t this painting such a visceral depiction of desire? The way the artist captured the longing…” I lift my fingers to my lips and do a chef’s kiss, and then I put my hand back down on the bench. Waiting.
