“Won’t you be embarrassed? I don’t exactly dress like–” My words trail off before I can mention Patrick, but I know he knows who I’m talking about. He draws me to a halt, holding my arm loosely, but I can feel his skin against mine and the slight roughness of his fingertips. His isn’t the hand of someone who sits in an office full time, which makes me curious.

“Do you want to dress like Patrick?” he asks baldly.

I consider him. “No, but you obviously liked the way he looked.”

He looks suddenly awkward. “Jesse, I chose to be with Patrick and lived with him, so that was a very different–”

“Oh no,” I break in quickly, feeling my heart flop and sink. He couldn’t have made it clearer if he’d written it in the sky that he doesn’t consider me a viable proposition to date. “I just don’t want to embarrass you,” I finish lamely, feeling my face burn.

He stares at me and a kind look crosses his face. “You couldn’t,” he says staunchly. I raise an eyebrow at him, and he smiles. “Come as you are.”

“Well, thank you, Kurt Cobain,” I say tartly.

He laughs. “I like the way you dress.”

“Really?” I say doubtfully. I pull myself together, still thinking of that almost pitying look in his eyes a few seconds ago. “Well, that’s good, I suppose,” I finish coolly. “But I think I’ll still get changed.”

The outfit that had seemed okay a few hours ago now feels like a red flag. As if I’ve embarrassed him in front of his peers by dressing like a kid. I think of the story Max told me, and all of a sudden I feel small. This kind, gentle man asked me here to help him. He trusted me to do that, and all I’ve done so far is muck about and make passes at him that obviously make him uncomfortable.

He hesitates like he wants to say something and then settles for looking worried. The silence stretches, and I watch him. “Okay then,” he finally says. “I’ll be in the car.”

I nod and walk away and give myself a talking to in the lift. By the time I get to the room, I’ve settled my mood. Just because I fancy him doesn’t mean he has to fancy me back. This isn’t a rom-com. It’s real life, and in real life he’s a wealthy older man who probably has far too many well-groomed men throwing themselves at him to be interested in a walking disaster of a twenty-four-year-old undergraduate who still dresses in Sesame Street T-shirts and doesn’t keep enough control of his mouth in social situations.

I change into smart grey chino shorts, a pale pink shirt, and leather deck shoes. I look in the mirror and decide I definitely look more suitable now.