“Hello,” a voice says with that customary air of amusement dancing along the vowels. Mags has an absolutely beautiful voice. Rich and warm, with a charming hint of his Danish accent and the very faint hint of a lisp that probably comes from speaking in a language that isn’t his first one.

I shake out two of my tablets and swallow them with a quick gulp from my water bottle.

“Well, if it isn’t my neighbour,” I say. “The one with all the assumptions.”

I smile as I remember that he’d thought I was a house painter. I can’t wait to tell my sister.

He rolls his eyes. “What are you doing here?” He winks. “Observing me in my natural and wonderful habitat?”

“Hardly. I’m doing some sketches of my stepfather.”

He looks down at my sketchbook, and I bless the fact that I gave the sketch of him to the old lady. He gazes at the blank page, and his mouth twitches. “You have really captured his personality,” he whispers, and I have to bite my lip to contain my laughter.

“What are you doing now?” he asks.

I pack my sketchbook and pencil back into my satchel. “Why? Are you planning a verbal assault on any more of my relatives?”

He bursts into laughter that’s as robust and attractive as the rest of him. “Ack. I’ll never live that down, will I?”

I shrug into my jacket. “Probably not.” I eye him. “Why? Have you got something in mind?”

“A walk,” he offers. “I always walk back to my chambers.” He looks suddenly discomfited. “Just a walk,” he says quickly. “Not a…”

“Date?” I offer sympathetically as he seems to search for words. “Don’t worry. I’m not under the impression that it’s that. I haven’t put my genital ribbon on, for a start.”

He laughs again and nudges me. “That’s a deep shame.”

I’d roll my eyes if I didn’t think they were in danger of falling out from the headache pulsing there. The tablets will work quickly, but the idea of fresh air is appealing.

“Where are your chambers?” I ask.

“Lincoln’s Inn. It’s a fifteen-minute walk. Maybe half an hour if we take it easy.”

I bet he doesn’t take it easy when he walks on his own, but I appreciate the consideration. There’s no way I’m breaking the one-minute mile with my leg in its current condition. It’s a surprisingly sweet thought from him.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m meeting my stepfather and mother for dinner, but it’s in that direction, so it works. I’ll text him to tell him I don’t need a lift. He’ll appreciate that because I’m sure he’s dying to meet his cronies for a drink.”