“Worried about me?” My cheeks burn, and only then do I realize we’re still touching. I chuck his hand onto his lap. “No. Buy a new pen.” “I will not. This is my cherished six-hundred-dollar fountain pen. Limited edition. Only ninety exist in the world. I’m eighty-nine.” Jasper points at the black resin barrel where 89 is engraved. “Any other pen would render my life a feckless charade.” “It’s leaking.” “All fountain pens smear.”
