I looked at the clause for a long time and then I said, "Not here."
Cole's hand was still flat on the island beside it. "Not here."
"You brought the most important piece of paper in my life out of a drawer in your apartment, forty-two stories above a city you own, at eleven o'clock at night." I picked it up. Soft at the folds, handled more than a document needs to be. "Every time this thing has been on a table, the table belonged to you. Vintage. Your kitchen. Your architecture, your ground, your room." I folded it once, along a crease somebody else had made, and put it in my jacket pocket. "If I'm answering it, I'm answering it on mine. Get your coat."
Something happened at the corner of his mouth. "It's eleven at night."
"I own a coffee shop," I said. "The whole point of owning a coffee shop is that it's yours at eleven at night."
