“I don’t know.” He shrugs, holding my gaze. “I could need a Georgia.” “Trust me.” I lift my eyebrows. “You don’t. They’re not worth it.” “I’m pretty sure they are,” he says, but in the context of everything, I’m pretty sure they’re not, so I just give him a tired smile that matches how my heart feels. “Good night, Sam.” And fast as anything, the inner corners of his eyebrows draw in and then go up—he’s disappointed—but then he smiles at me anyway. “Good night, Lord Byron.”
