“I would have thought your charming personality would have done that,” I say mildly. “But don’t worry. If he’s ill, I’ll pay to valet your car.”

“I’m not going to be sick,” Laurie mumbles.

I’m less sure of the fact when we walk into our building. His eyes are now narrow slits and his lips are drawn tight. He’s also swaying slightly.

I hold his arm and push him gently into the lift. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m terrible company.”

“Well, you were that before you had a headache.” He can’t help a chuckle and then makes a pained noise. I tut disapprovingly. “Don’t laugh. Stay quiet.” I tap his arm gently. “Lessons in life for you, Laurie.”

The lift doors open and we make our way down the corridor. I guide him after he stumbles. He can barely keep his eyes open. “Give me your keys,” I say, keeping my voice soft.

He makes a fumbling gesture and I stay his hand, reaching into the pocket of his jeans myself. He makes a startled sound, and I roll my eyes. “Please excuse me,” I say. “I’m not trying anything. Semi-conscious men don’t do it for me.”

“I would have thought that was your ideal man,” he mumbles, leaning against the wall as I open his door.

“You’re trying to be funny with a migraine,” I inform him. “Don’t.”

I guide him towards the bedroom. Once inside, I push him gently towards the unmade bed. The sheets are rumpled, and the room smells of his soapy scent. “Get undressed and under the covers,” I instruct him.

I open the window to bring in a breeze and then draw the blinds. The room immediately dims. I turn back and find him fumbling with his T-shirt.

“Ack, let me,” I say. I stride over and make quick work of drawing it over his head. I toss it onto a soft chair in the corner of the room, and it lands on a pile of what looks to be most of his clothes. Messy. I should have known.

I unzip his jeans and push them down his legs as he kicks off his Converse. I bend to manoeuvre them off his feet trying not to pay attention to his lean, wiry body and the sharp bones of his hips. Left in just a pair of green checked boxer shorts, he climbs into the bed as I draw the sheets back. He makes a sound of happiness. “God, that’s good.”

I pull the sheets over him and wander into the bathroom. I hold a hand towel under the water until it runs icy cold and wring it out before going back to the bedroom and placing it over his forehead.

He jumps but then sighs. “That’s good too,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” I say softly. “Can I get you anything else?”