My chin lifted in defiance while he cradled my hand with both of his; I tried not to be effected by his touch but the incongruence between the gentleness with which he held my hand and the obstinate quality of his glare was unnerving. His thumb was also moving in slow circles over the back of my hand. I clutched my anger to my chest like a last pair of marked down Jimmy Choo’s in my size.

Finally I said the only thing I could think of: “It’s a personal choice. I don’t want it.”

He sighed, visibly annoyed, “Why not?”

“Because... because-” I held my breath, not wanting to explain my unconventional repugnance for conventional technology but I couldn’t help myself. His closeness, his hands holding mine, the dastardly small circular motion of his thumb, even his slightly perturbed glare unleashed the floodgates of my nonsensical verbosity;

“Because- are we really here, alive if we interface with the world via a small black box? I don’t want my brain in a vat, I don’t want to be fed with input from the equivalent of a cerebral implant until I can’t tell fiction from reality. Don’t you see those people?” I motioned with my free hand to a line of customers waiting for their coffee, “Look at them. Where are they looking? They’re not looking at each other, they’re not looking at the art on the wall or the sun in the sky, they’re looking at their phones. They hang on every beep and alert and message and tweet and status update. I don’t want to be that. I’m distracted enough as it is by the actual, tangible, physical world. I’ve embraced the efficiency of a desktop PC for work and research; I’ll even venture on a laptop, but I draw the line at a cell phone. If I want social media I’ll join a book club. I draw the line at being collared and leashed and tracked like a tagged Orca in the ocean.”

I was a little breathless when I concluded and withdrew my fingers from his, leaving the phone in his hand; I tried to look everywhere but at him and his damn tenebrous blue eyes.

He placed the phone in my hand once again. “As much as the idea of collaring and leashing you sounds promising, the purpose of the phone is to ensure you’re reachable-”

I interrupted him, “You mean bound and restrained-”

“Janie, if I wanted to restrain you I’d use rope.” When he spoke his voice was low and softened with what could only be described as intimacy.

I met his gaze abruptly, startled by his tone; however, if his tone surprised me, then his gaze struck me momentarily mute. He’d shifted closer, towering over me so I had to tilt my head back to meet his stare, his mouth curved into a whisper of a smile which felt more menacing than a scowl. I blinked under the scalding stare and leaned one elbow against the counter at my side for balance.

I felt heat rise up my throat and over my cheeks as I frowned at him; “I know what you’re doing.” My own annoyance bolstered my confidence.

He lifted a single eyebrow and leaned against the counter, mimicking my stance, “And what’s that?”

“You’re teasing me again, like yesterday; you’re trying to distract me.” I placed the phone on the counter.

“I’m not trying to distract you.” His eyes traveled slowly over my face.

I gritted my teeth, trying force my blush under control and the beating of my heart- stupid heart; “Yes you are, and it won’t work.”

His smile grew, still just a small curve; his gaze continued its searing yet leisurely perusal of my features. “And why not?”

Recovering my voice but not entirely control of my brain, I started talking without really paying attention to my words, “Because they don’t use ropes, they use nets. They track the Orcas between Alaska and the Hawaiian islands to establish migration paths, mating patterns, and birth rates. It’s actually fascinating; did you know most male Killer Whales raised in captivity- about 60-90%- experience dorsal fin collapse.”

“Really. How interesting. What is that?” His voice was deadpan but he was still giving me that danger-smile.

I took a step backward. “Dorsal fin collapse. It’s where the dorsal fin- you know, the usually stiff fin on their back- droops to the side and they can’t get it up. Scientists think it’s because, in captivity, the males can’t get adequate depth, in the water, and so their fin droops. Which is why I don’t want a cell phone. I don’t want a droopy fin.”

The purposeful languorous caress of Quinn’s gaze ended abruptly as did his smile; he met my eyes and blinked at me like I’d said something completely crazy or horrifying. Quinn shook his head and glanced away, presumably to clear his thoughts of a troubling thought.

“Look,” he almost growled, picking up the phone from the counter and smacking it back into my palm once more; he quickly crossed his arms over his chest, his hands balling into fists, “you’re going to carry that phone.” his tone left little room for argument even as he made concessions, his characteristic up-to-no-good stare slipped back into place; “You don’t have to look at it, you just have to answer it when it rings. No one will text you, I promise. And, if they do, you can ignore the messages. Use it just like a landline- in fact, you can use it for personal calls if you want.” If possible, he looked even more preoccupied and detached than usual.

“But you can still use it to track my whereabouts, I’ll still be-” I swallowed hard as my hand closed around the stupid smart phone, accepting my fate, “I’ll still get a droopy fin. Do you want me to have a droopy fin? …Couldn’t you tell Carlos it was a bad idea? Tell him you made a mistake, he might listen to you.”

His eyes moved down to my neck, lingered there. Then he said, “Do you know what your problem is?”

His question made me frown, insta-glower actually, and I instinctively crossed my arms over my chest, “I have a problem?”

“Yes. You have a problem.” He lifted his piercing blue gaze to my glowering frown and I was somewhat stunned to see that he didn’t look agitated any longer; he looked intent, determined. It aggravated me.

Without thinking I said, “Oh, really? I can’t wait to hear what my problem is. You’ve known me a total of three weeks and you’ve already diagnosed the problem. The suspense is killing me. Well, please enlighten me oh great identifier of problems.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I suppressed a gasp by gulping hard. The level of my annoyance-fueled sarcasm was reaching critical mass and I couldn’t seem to control it.

“You are incredibly talented and are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met-”

I interrupted him, “Yes that sounds like a real problem. I see your point-”

“-but you are completely blind to the obvious.”

I could feel heat rising again to my cheeks, I clenched my teeth, “Well, obviously you’re right. Obviously I should just carry the cell phone.” I slipped the cell phone into my pocket, “Thank you so much, Quinn, for pointing out the obvious error of my ways.” I gave him a very fake, very sweet smile and started past him, intent on the door.

Before I could move more than a step he reached out and stopped me, gripping my arm above the elbow. “Damn it, I’m not talking about the cell phone-”

“I need to get back to work.” I stepped back and shrugged out of his grip; he took a step forward, effectively trapping me against the counter and I refused to meet his eyes.

“You’re angry with me.” I heard him sigh.

“I’m not angry. I don’t get angry.”

“Then you do a really good impression of angry.”

Am I angry? I wondered. I couldn’t remember ever being really angry, not even when my mother left, not when Jem spiked my OJ before the SATs, not when Jon cheated on me with random bimbo #2. I was flustered and agitated and more annoyed than I’d ever felt in my life. But then, Quinn seemed to have some kind of effect over me, made my moods swing faster than a steroid doped Barry Bonds.

I lifted my hand to my forehead and rubbed my temple. “Look,” I huffed. He was standing too close, I couldn’t think with my brain when my body wanted to climb him like a tree. “I’m not angry. I just have a completely irrational hatred of cell phones. And you are just the messenger.”

“It won’t be as bad as you think.” He sounded remorseful.

I looked at him then, narrowed my eyes unhappily, “It’s already pretty bad.”

“Now I can text you daily jokes.” Again, his voice was deadpan but his eyes lighted with mischievousness; he placed his hands on either side of me, my back still against the counter, and filled every inch of my immediate vision.

I cleared my throat, my annoyance melting into something warmer even as I tried to stay focused, “I thought you said there would be no texting?”

“Only from me. And you don’t have to answer.”

“I won’t answer, and I won’t read your jokes.”

Then he smiled. It was the same slow sexy grin that always penetrated my defenses; “Yes you will. You’ll read them.” He nodded slowly, just once, as though to emphasize his certainty.

I tried not to smile and only half succeeded, “I’m still angry with you.”