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“He reached out and took my hands on the center of the table, pushing aside our mostly empty plates. His thumb brushed lightly over my knuckles, sending a shiver trembling from my wrists to my shoulders to my chest. "I want to keep things anything but professional," he said, voice low. It thrummed somewhere deep in my stomach. "I mean, unless you want to keep things professional." I traced my own thumbs over his palms. They curled reflexively up into my hands. "I want you to stop saying the word professional. And thinking it." I swallowed hard. Once I said this, there was no going back. But I didn't want to go back. "I don't want to keep things professional. At all." "Then we're in agreement," he said gravely. "To be unprofessional. Together." I nearly wrenched my shoulder from its socket waving to the waitress for the check. "No dessert tonight," I told her, trying not to look at Bennett's slow grin across from me. "I think we'll just have it at home.” — Amanda Elliot