Chapter 7: Terms

Thatcher chose the rooftop restaurant, which had been closed since Monday for repairs.

There was one table in the middle of the terrace, lit by a string of bulbs and the whole city.

"The chef is off," he said. "I made grilled cheese."

"You can cook?"

"I can burn bread. I'm told it counts."

He pulled out my chair. His hand stopped an inch from my shoulder and went back to his side.

I sat down.

He sat across from me and laid a hotel napkin and a pen on the table.

"Terms," he said.

"I love terms."

"I know you do. That's why we're having them."

He wrote on the napkin in small, hard capitals.

"One. No touching."

"Agreed."

He looked up. "Just like that?"

"It's an opening bid," I said. "I'm going to amend it."

He stared at me.

"Two. Nobody shows up at the other's door unannounced. Not mine, not yours."

"Agreed."

"Three. No more public confessions. Not at galas, not at auctions, not in the lobby."

"Agreed."

"You agree to all three."

"I'm a very agreeable person," I said. "Now my amendments."

He closed his eyes.

"Rule one," I said. "No touching, except by accident."

"Fine."

"Except for medical reasons."

"There are no medical reasons."

"There could be."

"Fine."

"Except in elevators."

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