“So you’re being conscientious,” Rupert says.
“Yes.”
“And thorough.”
“Yes.”
“You’re dressed nicely,” he adds. “For someone collecting dessert.”
“This is a clean jacket.”
“You showered,” he says. “I can smell it.”
“That’s kitchen standard.”
“That,” Rupert replies calmly, “is courting.”
I scoff. “I am not courting anyone.”
“You are bringing homemade tiramisu to a woman’s workplace,” he says. “Uninvited. At dawn.”
“It’s contextual,” I insist. “She’s writing a feature. I want it to be accurate.”
“And you believe carbohydrates will assist journalistic integrity?”
“I believe tasting the finished product matters.”
Rupert watches me for a long moment, then sets his mug down with deliberate care.
“Tom,” he says, gently now, which is worse, “did something happen last night?” He knows me far too well.
“No,” I say too quickly.
He raises an eyebrow.
I sigh. “Fine. Things… escalated.”
“Escalated,” he repeats. “In what sense?”
I hesitate again. Longer this time.
“We crossed a line,” I say.
Rupert goes very still. “Define crossed.”
I glare at the floor. “Oh my god. Do I need to spell it out? We. Slept. Together.”
There it is.
The kitchen seems to absorb the information before Rupert does. He exhales slowly, then nods once, as if ticking something off an internal list.
“Oh,” he says. “That explains the tiramisu.”
“It was a mistake,” I add immediately.
“Of course it was,” Rupert agrees. “Hence the dessert.”
“This is not about last night.”
