That’s where my desk is. But tonight I’ll take the sofa and—” “No,” I say. “Absolutely not. I’m completely fine on the sofa. There’s no way I’m going to come up here, have to stay because I can’t read a ferry timetable, and then kick you out of your bed. Not ever going to happen.” There’s a count of silence and then he looks me dead in the eye. “I’m sleeping on the sofa.” His voice is deep and serious and full of concentrated masculinity. It’s so intense I have to look away and place my hand on the table to stop myself from toppling over. I know there’s no point in arguing.
