“Bennet, I’m fine,” Jane says, his voice cracking over the receiver. He came home from the hospital yesterday, turning in early after a quiet afternoon of hanging around the apartment with Charles. He was still sleeping when I left for work this morning. While I set his alarm with plenty of time before the follow-up with his doctor, I still wanted to check in.

I settle against the break room counter. “I’m sorry I can’t go with you. Toby’s figured out that his fun little business venture is officially a bicoastal operation. He’s kind of wigging.”

This is mostly true, but I don’t want to go into detail, lest Jane feel guilty for having the audacity to get bludgeoned. I came in yesterday to a deluge of emails and an overwhelmed boss, whom I directed to take lunch out of the office today so he could get a moment to breathe. I won’t be able to get in a makeup meeting at Pemberley, which is a bummer, but they were understanding about my “family emergency.” Between the notes I sent in and my commitment to getting there early Saturday, everything should be fine.

“Don’t worry,” Jane insists. “Charles will be here in a few minutes. He’s offered to set up a meeting with his lawyer to see if there’s any grounds for a lawsuit. Negligence, or something?”

“Smart.” I smile. “And generous. Think he’s gotten Florence Nightingale syndrome?”

“Ben!” he scolds.

“I’m kidding! Jeez, it’s like you’ve had a recent head trauma or something.”

I turn to open the cabinet above the espresso machine for coffee beans. Toby should return in the next few minutes, and I figure he’ll appreciate a dose of caffeine.

The doorbell buzzes in the background of my connection with Jane, and I hear him take in a sharp breath. “That’s Charles!” he says with a smile I can hear. “I’m off. See you at eight?”

“You’re sure you’re up for it?”

“It’s only one song, and I can’t bail on Darlene,” he says, referring to the revue’s producer, a fellow burlesquer. “It’s her debut with this show. And, Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“You made me, promises, promises,” he croons. My shoulders drop. “You promised you’d talk to Andrea, miss. I’m holding you to it. Ciao!”

He hangs up before I can get out a proper complaint.

“Brat.” I tug down the headset so it rests around my neck. I was hoping he hadn’t hung on to that.