"Of course!" Somewhere, anyway - he pats down his suit, suddenly not remembering what suit he's even wearing and so not sure whether it has hidden inside pockets and if so where. But there it is, indeed, an inner breast pocket with a lump that turns out to be a pen. And paper - paper? Ah, a napkin he's brought along. Which isn't a paper napkin, of course they're fancier than that, it's cloth, but it's something...
And a cloth napkin. Not great. Too fancy for her to dare scribble over. Being a young lady of practical sensibility, the obvious fix is to write on someone's hand. There, however, lies the dilemma: she has no sleeves to hide an inked number. It has to be him.
Paloma chews on her lip and hovers her hand over his. "If I write my number on your wrist, you could hide it and it'll wash off better than the handkerchief?"
That's a good point, and makes him flush for how intimate it feels, and yet... "Well, the truth is I can be somewhat...absent-minded, I would hate to accidentally wash it off before transferring it to my address book..." Then again, he knows how to get in contact with her for business purposes, it's not as if he'd have no way to recover the number. So he holds out his left wrist, being less likely to shake anyone's hand with it.
"I'll write further up," she says quickly, sincerely anxious at the idea of ruining a handkerchief that costs more than her average meal plan.
Paloma pushes his sleeve far back, as promised, and realizes she's about to ink her phone number onto an English lord's forearm. Is this part of a made-for-tv mockumentary? Biting her lip harder, the cold tip of the pen tickles over his skin in a neat-ish line.
Is it that weird?? He doesn't think so! "Why shouldn't I be? I'm not carrying my phone right now, so there isn't much option!" Just do it, give him the digits, before he has a stroke from being too much of a weenie.
It's weird when her ears still ring with 'he wants to fuck you', and she's been hit on twice in the same night by men who wouldn't stop to give her the time of day if it weren't for Veronica. Maybe.
Paloma kind of hopes he's better than her preconceptions of uber-privileged rich white nobility. Hence finishing the last digit with a relieved sigh, patting him politely. "I mean about staying in touch. Should we keep it quiet? Gossip..." Her fear is beginning to run away with her mouth.
He shakes his head, taking a quick look at his wrist to be sure he didn't get a 1-800-fuc-kyou or something. "Oh, no, it isn't like those old Victorian stories or anything!" He laughs a little to give her a reassuring smile. "I'm...rather self-conscious when it comes to these things, for my own reasons, but that's quite different."
Because all signs until now DEFINITELY point to heartless con!!!
Old Victorian stories? Was the question that silly? Paloma falls silent in her embarrassed reflection. Her gaze drifts to the light glowing from indoors, which doesn't breach their table's privacy. The paranoia that his brother could wander back puts a lump in her stomach.
"... I guess if... I guess if we kept it hush hush, that makes it look like something to be ashamed of. Sorry. Not good at this."
"It's quite alright! Of course, if you think a personal relationship would look poorly on you for your career, that's another thing." He wouldn't want her to lose her job because of some conflict of interest. In that case they should keep it quiet.
Her turn to try for a comforting smile, summoning half of one in the end.
"My gut says to plan out everything I can and don't leave anything to chance. Don't think that'll work, will it? No, I'm just-- I already said what I was about to say. Sorry." Feeling apologetic and an alien in her own skin, she stands up, rubbing her bicep. "Sorry, sorry..."
"I swear I won't change my mind, and I will certainly call!" He almost wants to say immediately but, no don't be a desperate ho. Hyde is absolutely cackling.
"Then I suppose I'll see you soon - I think I had better return to the crowd or they'll be wondering." But he leaves her with another hand over hers and a warm smile.
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"Figure I have a week before we'll know our return time," she tells them. Her rasp has taken on a softer, shyer note. "Do- do you have a pen?"
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And a cloth napkin. Not great. Too fancy for her to dare scribble over. Being a young lady of practical sensibility, the obvious fix is to write on someone's hand. There, however, lies the dilemma: she has no sleeves to hide an inked number. It has to be him.
Paloma chews on her lip and hovers her hand over his. "If I write my number on your wrist, you could hide it and it'll wash off better than the handkerchief?"
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Paloma pushes his sleeve far back, as promised, and realizes she's about to ink her phone number onto an English lord's forearm. Is this part of a made-for-tv mockumentary? Biting her lip harder, the cold tip of the pen tickles over his skin in a neat-ish line.
"You're really sure?"
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Paloma kind of hopes he's better than her preconceptions of uber-privileged rich white nobility. Hence finishing the last digit with a relieved sigh, patting him politely. "I mean about staying in touch. Should we keep it quiet? Gossip..." Her fear is beginning to run away with her mouth.
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Old Victorian stories? Was the question that silly? Paloma falls silent in her embarrassed reflection. Her gaze drifts to the light glowing from indoors, which doesn't breach their table's privacy. The paranoia that his brother could wander back puts a lump in her stomach.
"... I guess if... I guess if we kept it hush hush, that makes it look like something to be ashamed of. Sorry. Not good at this."
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"It's quite alright! Of course, if you think a personal relationship would look poorly on you for your career, that's another thing." He wouldn't want her to lose her job because of some conflict of interest. In that case they should keep it quiet.
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"My gut says to plan out everything I can and don't leave anything to chance. Don't think that'll work, will it? No, I'm just-- I already said what I was about to say. Sorry." Feeling apologetic and an alien in her own skin, she stands up, rubbing her bicep. "Sorry, sorry..."
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Time to fret that he's messed up already making her feel stupid or something! Instinctively, he reaches out for her hand.
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Jekyll's hand is scalding. Drop it, says her sensibility. But she grips him back.
"Let me know if you haven't changed your mind," she croaks. "When- if you call."
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"Then I suppose I'll see you soon - I think I had better return to the crowd or they'll be wondering." But he leaves her with another hand over hers and a warm smile.