I frown. “When?”
“Tonight.”
I blink.
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s…” I let out a short breath, half a laugh. “That’s even worse.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. It absolutely is.”
“Whitstable’s an hour and a half.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“Maybe not.”
I sit back, running a hand through my hair.
I plan. I think things through. I don’t get invited away by a man I met—what—twenty minutes ago and even consider it.
And yet.
I am considering it.
Which is, frankly, more concerning than the invitation itself.
“I don’t even know you,” I say.
“You know enough.”
“You planned this?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “But I’m ready for it.”
I stare at him.
At the steadiness. The lack of hesitation. The fact that he’s not pushing, not trying to sell it, just… putting it there.
“I have things to do,” I say. “Packing. Work. Actual responsibilities.”
“You’ve got four days.”
“Five.”
“Close enough.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “This is ridiculous.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re fine with that.”
“I am.”
