REEVE: Sweaty Palms
Drunk. He has to be drunk. There's no other explanation for it.
Never before has the flash of her exposed midriff garnered his admittedly short attention span. Nor were her shorts ever so sinfully tight. Well, maybe that last bit wasn't exactly true. But never before did he notice.
He buries his hands back into the twining mess of wires lumped before him and tries to ignore the sound of her lips pressing together as she pops her gum. Cait squeaks in indignation when his sweaty palms short one of the cat's delicate circuits.
"Yeowch! Sounds like that hurt!" He hasn't turned around, but he knows she's smiling and it makes him sweat all the more. "Can't concentrate?" she asks.
She doesn't know the half of it. He wonders why she has to stand so close.
"Maybe you're getting old, eh, Reeve?"
He is not noticing the swell of her calf when he glances over his shoulder. His eyes did not just trace the inner line of that gently sloping thigh. He forces himself to look up at her face - youthful, familiar but so different now. He'd been hoping the promotion would bring her closer to his office - which it did, technically, but having her inside the WRO building is still an exceedingly rare occasion. Maybe he'll arrange another assassination attempt. That might force her to stick around more...
"Earth to Reeve," she calls in her singsong voice, waving a hand in front of his face.
"I just had too much to drink," he finally answers with a smile.