<span style="font-weight: bold">Samantha Belweather</span><br/><br/>Jules shifted his leg, a little coyly, and I pursued it. I wanted to rub my foot against it, and I meant to. “No need to be nervous,” I murmured to him, “or shy. I’m having a lovely evening.” I paused. “So far.” The poor boy still needed to tapdance a<span style="font-style: italic">little</span>for me, and that meant keeping him a<span style="font-style: italic">bit</span>on his toes.<br/><br/>“What do I do when I’m<span style="font-style: italic">not</span>working,” I half-laughed. “Well, I work a<span style="font-style: italic">lot</span>. Apart from that, sleep, eat - sometimes at the office,” I half-teased, though he surely knew I’d shitcanned the rare employee for non-performance, and had stockboys at my desk<span style="font-style: italic">considerably</span>more often. “Then there’s things that are<span style="font-style: italic">expected</span>. Theatre, gallery opening, tennis, whatever,” I smiled. “I still get to kick back and watch the game with the girls, a beer and a stockboy<span style="font-style: italic">sometimes</span>.”