"Maybe not." She watches him glance back at the door--good choice, Solo--and take the few steps necessary to sit beside her. He's all warmth, even through his clothes, and she recalls of the feel of him beneath her when his arm brushes against her shoulder.

After a moment's stiff-backed consideration, she leans into him a little. It's the sort of movement that feels overwhelmingly artificial to her when she's thinking about it; hopefully the wine will bury that instinct to be so conscious of everything she does. "The only trouble I see right now is if you don't have a corkscrew."