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He pushes his hand across his jaw, like he’s considering the idea. He looks so hot as his t-shirt lifts a little, exposing some of the flat of his stomach. I know how good that bronzed, hard skin feels. I look away, mentally chastising myself. I have to stop seeing him as attractive. A day bed rotting would help. I can reframe him as a slob, rather than a highly polished billionaire who never wastes a second of any day.

“Wouldn’t that waste the day?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I say. “And reset the body and mind at the same time.”

He shrugs. “Well, you went along with my plans yesterday, so I should fall in line today.”

“Hey, oysters Rockefeller were in your plans yesterday. It’s not like I had to sacrifice too much. Seriously, if you’ve arranged things, then let’s do what you’ve already got on our agenda.”

“I’m open to expanding my horizons to bed rotting,” he says, as if I’ve asked him to go fly-fishing for the first time or take Mandarin lessons. “You’ll have to be gentle with me, though. I’m a beginner.”

I laugh at how earnest he’s being.

“What’s first?” he asks.

I shrug. “We go back to bed, of course.”

“Really?” He glances out of the window. The sun is shining and the sky is blue. I bet it’s cold, but it would be that dry cold that’s perfect with the sun on your face, wrapped up in a big, warm coat.

“We can go out,” I say.

“Absolutely not,” he says, nodding toward my bedroom. “We’re bed rotting. We can’t go out on bed-rotting Sunday, Avril. Don’t you know anything?”

I laugh, pick up my coffee, and pad back to my bedroom. “Follow me and let Bed Rotting 101 commence.” I shuffle over to the side of the bed nearest the window and toss a couple of pillows at Ben. “Get comfy,” I say.

“Let me get the TV on,” he says. Opposite the bed is a large black-and-white photograph of a chair, with a straw seat, and a pipe on it, like a remake of the famous Van Gogh painting. The picture opens like a door to reveal a TV screen.

“Do you have hidden cameras around here as well as hidden TVs?” I ask.

“Distrustful and paranoid. Stop it.” Then he pauses. “Have you ever recorded yourself…having sex? Is that your thing?” His eyes meet mine and everything tingles. Pajamas feel like not enough clothes and being so close to a bed suddenly feels dangerous.

“No,” I snap. Then I look at him out of the corner of one eye. “Have you?”

He shakes his head. “Too paranoid and distrustful, I think. But I would be open to it if…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, which is infuriating.

“If what?” I ask.

He tosses a remote control onto the bed and climbs in next to me. “I don’t know. I think it could be hot if you trusted a person.”

“But could you ever trust a person that much? And anyway, what if someone hacked into…”

He nods. “Yeah, you’d have to go old school.”

“Like a camcorder with tape or something? I don’t think you can even buy that kind of thing anymore.”

“I’m sure you can get them. Anything’s available at the right price.”

“Of course it is,” I say, scornfully.

“You can hate it, but it’s life.”

He’s right. And he knows that better than most people. He’s seen his life collapse because of not having enough money. It’s not like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

“You’re right,” I say.

“It’s still a risk. Someone could break in, take the tapes.”

“That’s extreme. I’m not sure burglars are looking for old camcorder tapes. They’re going to break in here looking for watches and jewelry. And cash.”