“And the unofficial version?”
His eyes hold mine.
“I’d like to spend an hour with you somewhere that doesn’t have radios, alarms or Kev’s opinions about toast.”
That should be too much.
It is not.
It is exactly enough.
I fold my arms, partly because I need something to do with them. “You understand I can buy my own breakfast.”
“I never doubted it.”
“And this is not an interview.”
“No.”
“Or research.”
“No.”
“Or some manipulative journalist thing where you lure me in with carbohydrates.”
He considers this. “I can’t promise there won’t be carbohydrates.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“But the manipulation will be minimal.”
“Minimal?”
“I’m exhausted. It’s the best I can offer.”
I smile.
His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second.
Barely that.
Enough.
“Fine,” I say.
His gaze comes back to mine.
“Fine as in yes?”
“Fine as in I’ll let you buy me breakfast.”
“Excellent.”
“But I choose where.”
“Obviously.”
“And if you write down anything I say, I’ll stab you with a fork.”
