“You didn’t.”
He gives me a soft smile.
“Would it help—” I press my lips together.
No. It’s absurd. He wouldn’t want that. He wants to change back time, certainly. He wants to not have declared to the world that he’s dating his team’s massage therapist. He doesn’t want…
I inhale. I need to ask him. Maybe he’ll say the solution is ridiculous. Probably that’s exactly what he’ll say.
Still. I need to know. He needs to know this is an option.
“Would you like to pretend to be dating?” I ask.
He blinks.
I want to sink into the floor. I don’t, because that’s not the way floors work. At least the kinds that don’t have sinkholes appearing at strategic times.
“It’s silly,” I say. “Sorry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—” I draw in a deep breath of air.
Florian is right.
Even though I put a lot of effort into making this place relaxing, the eucalyptus scent and calming music are ineffective barriers against the panic seizing through my veins.
Florian watches me.
“It’s a good thing that you are remembering things,” I say.
He looks at me warily.
“For your career,” I say. “You’ll be able to be on the ice faster.”
“Yes.”
“And your general health,” I say. “Short-term amnesia is better than long-term amnesia.”
He is quiet, but he gives me a small nod.
I wonder if he’s been thinking about all the risks of long-term brain damage that I have. All the risks for the future.
“If you want... And you might not want this at all—this is up to you, but I want to give you the option?—”
He watches me.
I feel ridiculous.
I can’t be about to offer to fake date one of the most eligible men in Boston, can I? He makes so much more money than I do. And he’s gorgeous, and…
“If you want, we can keep on telling people that we’re dating,” I say.
“Oh.” He sits back in his seat. “I see.”
“It’s a suggestion, Florian. You don’t have to accept it.”
“Perhaps…” He hesitates.
