I smile. “If only you fit in my pocket, then I could carry you everywhere.”
“For what it’s worth, Patrick seems like a real jackass, and from the comments I’ve overheard, it’s the camp consensus. I’m surprised he had the nerve to show up.”
“He’s very good at compartmentalizing.”
Charlie scoffs. “That’s one way of describing it.” He picks up the first card and reads aloud. “You’re on a spaceship that’s supposed to depart for your favorite interplanetary saloon. Unfortunately, you discover at the last minute that a rebel faction has planted a bomb onboard.” He glances at me. “Are we Stormtroopers?”
“Officially no, because that would be intellectual property infringement.”
He continues with the card. “If you don’t locate the bomb in the next fifty minutes, the ship will explode and kill everyone onboard. A literal ticking time bomb.” He chuckles. “No room for subtlety.” He spins around, his gaze searching. “Is there a timer somewhere? How do we know when the clock stops?”
“Wait. You haven’t done an escape room before?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Why is that so shocking?”
“It was all the rage for a while. Every birthday party seemed to involve a themed escape room.”
“Not the kind of parties I went to.”
“Ooh la la. Apologies Monsieur Fancy Pantaloons.”
“They weren’t fancy. They just didn’t involve escape rooms.”
“Describe a typical party for young Charles Thorpe the Twentieth. I’ll determine where it falls on the fancy scale.”
“They were mostly at home.”
That sounds too wholesome. “In the house where they lived?”
“Or a vacation home, depending on the season.”
“Ah, yes. The ubiquitous second home amongst the gentry. I suppose the kitchen staff prepared the food and baked the cake in the butler’s pantry.”
“Don’t be silly. We hired caterers.”
I can’t tell if he’s being serious and part of me doesn’t want to know.
He folds his arms. “Courtney Abernathy, are you money shaming me?”
“What? That’s not a thing.”
“Of course it is. It’s basically the same as shaming a woman who’s thin. Just because it’s the more desired societal standard doesn’t make it right.”
I gape at him. “I am money shaming you.” I clap a hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
Charlie squeezes my shoulder. “It’s cool. I’m used to you ribbing me by now.”
“No, it’s not okay. I won’t do it again. I pride myself on creating a safe, nonjudgmental space, yet here I stand in my black robe, smacking you on the head with a gavel.”
“Growing up with money has downsides, too,” he says.
I look at him, genuinely curious. “Like?”
“Oh, you want evidence, Your Honor?”
“I’m interested.”
He wanders over to the painting of an interplanetary saloon. “Pressure to keep up the success of your forebears.”
