I’m possessed by the conviction that this wasn’t what he meant to say at all. I don’t challenge him, though.

“So, you have a list, Laurie?”

“Yes, I’ve got a list of all the places I’ve always wanted to see in London and never made time for before.” His gaze becomes distant. “I don’t want to see London through the eyes of a painter anymore,” he finally says. “I want to actually experience it.”

“Does looking at it through the eyes of an artist distance you from it?” I ask against my desire not to get involved in this conversation.

He looks startled for a second, then says eagerly, “Yes. That’s just it. I want to really see the city. Not paint it.”

“Why now?”

“I’m looking forward to ticking everything off the list,” he says, his tone chatty.

He hasn’t answered my question at all, and we both know it.

Eventually, he rambles on about his list, almost feverishly. I have no idea what is going on with this man. He’s running from something, but I can’t imagine what would make this easy-going man run. Likely, I’ll never know, which almost makes me sad.

I become aware that the words have stopped, and he’s looking at me expectantly. “Well?” he says. “What do you think?”

“Hmm,” I say in what I hope is an enigmatic manner. I take a sip of my beer to buy some time, and he rolls his eyes.

“Not listening. I suspected as much,” he says breezily. “Would it help if I stripped naked and attached something to my penis?”

The words are light, but I’m struck by an image of him naked and waiting on my bed. Heat pools in my stomach, and I immediately force my thoughts in another direction.

“The only thing I would like you to attach yourself to is a silencer,” I say tartly.

I relish his warm chuckle. It makes me feel curiously light, as if I’m filled with helium.

He leans forward. “I’m glad you agree with me, anyway.”

I pause with my glass halfway to my lips. I feel like a mouse when he looks up and sees a cat. “That makes me rather nervous,” I say. “What exactly have I agreed to do?”

“You’re coming on my checklist adventure,” he says.

I blink. “I certainly am not.”

“Oh, come on,” he wheedles. “It’ll be fun.”

“I’m in the middle of a trial.”

“You’re near the end of one,” he corrects me. “You said earlier that it would wrap up tomorrow. And you’re finished for the day by six, aren’t you?”

“I’m finished in court, but not necessarily for the day. I don’t go into suspended animation when they shut the doors of the Old Bailey.”