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“I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“I assume it’s my fault?”
Ignoring his implication, I ask, “Can we please get on with this discussion?”
He ignores my request and hits the intercom button above his head. “Peters, take us home.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“You need to be fed, and I suspect a nap is also in order.”
“Mr. Black–”
“Foster.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“The proposition.”
“Christ, just tell me already!” I huff.
“It can wait. You need to relax. Your face is flushed, and your pulse is rapid.”
“Like you care,” I mumble.
“I do care.”
At that, Foster leaves me alone and slides back to his side of the seat, all while removing his phone from the inner pocket of his jacket so he could type a message. I ignore him, looking out at the congestion of moving bodies and midday traffic.
