You OK?
OK. Not the worst case of drunk texting.
Wait.
Eleven?
I looked at the clock on the top left of my screen and groaned.
Yup, I was going to be late.
‘YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO be here at eleven,’ said Patrick as I skidded to a halt just before him – my hands on my ribs, lungs pulling in as much oxygen as they could, my cross-body bag somehow still attached to me. ‘That was thirty minutes ago –’
‘I know – I’m sorry –’ I really needed to get into the gym. Panting like this was not OK. ‘So,’ I wheezed. ‘What – what’s the plan?’
He hadn’t shared much about what our next outing would be. My hangover was fading fast thanks to the large coffee I’d inhaled before I left the hotel, but I wasn’t sure I had the strength to do more than just smile in a corner today.
Did he need me to smile in a corner?
‘We’re attending a lunch with my record label,’ Patrick said with a sigh. ‘They throw a fancy midday shindig every year, ahead of awards season. For all their artists.’
I paused, waiting for my brain to kick in before asking, ‘If the lunch starts at midday, why did you ask me to meet you here at eleven?’
‘Because first I want us to dothat.’ He pointed to a sign behind us.
Thanks to the coffee now coursing through my veins, it took me a moment to focus on the words.
Abseiling.Abseiling?
‘You cannot be serious!’ There was not enough money in the world –
‘What?’ A slow smile spread across his face. ‘You’ve never wanted to launch yourself off a building?’
Was that supposed to be a rhetorical question?
‘I like the ground,’ I said firmly. ‘Besides, we have this lunch –’
‘Look, instead of just going from one contractual obligation to another, I figured we should actually do something fun for once,’ Patrick said, a wry smile lifting his lips.
‘Fun?’ I repeated, trying to take it in.
‘Yes, Jessy. Fun. Have you ever heard of the concept?’
Fun. Falling from a building?
I was starting to get whiplash from all the sides of Patrick I was being introduced to. Spontaneous, teasing Patrick was a new personality … but one that was winning me over.
‘So … we’re not going to have lunch with your record label?’ I asked, glancing up at the tall building we were standing beside. I couldn’t tell if my head was pounding from last night’s antics or from the imminent death that awaited me.
‘Nah,’ said Patrick, his smile smaller, but still there. ‘I mean, we’ll still have lunch with them, but we’ll be fashionably late.’
It was the easy way he took my hand. It was the way my skin warmed to his – the way his fingers felt right, solid, in my palm.
As though his hand should have always been there.
I found myself nodding, almost without thought. Anna was always telling me I needed to make the most of this experience. Perhaps it was time to start listening.
As we stepped into the lobby, a guy wearing sunglasses – indoors? – waved us towards a lift.
