He already knows this, so I don’t know why he’s asking, but I oblige him. “Went for long walks along the beach, ate Phil’s dinners, slept for what felt like days, helped around the farm, and went to the hospital.”

His eyes sharpen, and now I know why he started with those questions. He was easing me into it. “And the hospital staff were happy with you?”

I smile at him. “Yes, I’ve already told you this.”

“I wanted to hear it face to face.” He’s worried I’ve been lying again to make him happy. I think it’s going to take a while for him to get over that.

“It seems that the reason for the increased turns was because of the change in tablets. Once I got back on the correct ones, it didn’t take long to stabilise. They think I could be seizure-free soon.”

“And you feel better in yourself?” His eyes are piercing, focussing on me with the intensity that makes him such a successful man.

Heat throbs in my groin again, and it takes me a moment to realise he’s waiting for an answer. I nod firmly. “I do. Just to get through a day without a turn was such a luxury. I didn’t realise how disassociated I felt, how tired and worn I was, until I had a whole day clear.”

“And it’s been just one turn this week?”

I grin at him. “Yep.”

He sits up. “We need to celebrate.”

I eye him suspiciously. “How? No trouble, Misha.”

He assumes his angelic expression. “I feel deeply wounded that I say we’ll celebrate and you leap to the erroneous conclusion that I’ll get you into trouble.”

“Well done with the big words,” I say wryly. “And my reasons are well-founded. Last time we celebrated we nearly got arrested.”

“Pfft,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “Not going to happen again. That was all Jesse’s fault anyway.” I open my mouth to continue the discussion, but he leans forward, happiness lighting his eyes. “But this is your celebration, so we can do it however you want.”

“Any way I want?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes. “It worries me to say this, but yes. You have carte blanche, Charlie.” There must be evil in the smile I give him, because he sighs long-sufferingly. “Okay, sunshine. Tell me what we’re doing.” He shakes his head. “I somehow know that it’s sadly very worthy and cultural and will in no way result in us being arrested.”

“Nope,” I say happily. “I want to go to the National Gallery.”

“I knew it,” he says sadly. “Ugh.”

“Want to back out?” I ask tauntingly.

He raises his chin. “Never. We’re celebrating, sunshine.”

“Then go and get dressed. We’re doing culture, baby.”