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“Ivy?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Sorry, I drifted off. Daydreams.”
He’s at the bed, concern in his eyes as he looks into mine. “You went somewhere else there. I’m calling Syd.” He’s speed-dialing. I reach over and stop him, my hand touching his. The electric connection makes me startle.
Yep, I would definitely spontaneously combust.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I promise. It’s just been a long, weird day. My head is fine.”
I was daydreaming long before the injury.
“You’re sure?” he asks, leaning in a little closer to look at my pupils.
“Yes. I’m not going to die on you.” Not today, anyway. I make a point of looking around the luxurious room. “Although, to be fair, this wouldn’t be a bad way to go. This bed probably cost more than my flat.”
About the same size, too.
He brushes off the reference to money. He doesn’t see it anymore—like a goldfish who doesn’t see the water around him because it’s always been there.
He seems reassured about the state of my health, because he shifts back, but he doesn’t leave the bed.
I wish he would go back to the chair.
I wish he’d come closer.
Maybe I do actually have a concussion.
“Where were we?” he asks, casually leaning back. “Ah. Planning our evening. Usually, I’d find out what you like, and plan an evening around that. If you liked sushi, I’d take you to The Araki.”
I gulped at that. Not only did I love sushi, but The Araki had three Michelin stars. They have only nine seats at the counter, and only the finest ingredients are used—flown in daily from Tokyo’s Tsukiji market. It would be an absolute dream to go—if I weren’t so opposed to the carbon footprint, of course.
“Italian?” he continues. “I’d probably take you to Locatelli.”
Michelin.
“Or somewhere in Italy, if you prefer. Modena?”
“Okay,” I say. “I get the picture. What if I’m not hungry?”
“Art gallery? Theatre? Or film. I have a cinema.”
“Of course you do,” I murmur.
“I’m just trying to be honest.”
“You’re not, though.”
He tilts his head, affronted—or more likely, pretending to be affronted.
“You don’t find these things out. Your personal assistant does. And they’re the one who plans the outings.”
“It’s the same thing.”
I scoff. “It is not.”
He’s amused. He can’t help himself. “My PAs are like my extra arms,” he explains. “I get busy, so they do things for me. They’re part of me.”
I nod sagely, as if he is the Wise One teaching me Very Important Things. “I see. Extra arms. Like a … kraken.”
