13. Adam

13

ADAM

I t’s funny how surreal the first awards event I attended with Anna felt and how this one feels almost normal, like I’ve acclimatized to this whole thing. Several women are standing farther up the red carpet in long dresses, talking to journalists, and Anna’s silver dress glitters in front of me as she steps out of the car and smiles at me over her shoulder as we move up toward the entrance, back straight and strong, brown curls piled on her head. When I reach her side she leans into me, red lips curling up as she whispers, “My mother isn’t speaking to me,” as we approach a waiting line of journalists.

“What? Why not?”

“She thinks splitting up with Arty Maroz was the biggest mistake I ever made.”

Before I can answer, the man in front of us moves on, we step forward, and the waiting journalist sticks a microphone in Anna’s face. Before either the journalist or she can speak, however, a voice comes from behind me:

“That bitch stole my dog!”

I turn as if in slow motion, cameras flashing and calls of “Over here!” echoing from my right. I step forward instinctively, putting myself between the voice and Anna, as a man with short dark hair and broad shoulders barrels toward us. Arty Maroz . Before I can even jerk back, his arm is up and I stagger sideways as a blow blooms hot and sharp across my cheek.

Shit. Anna. My response to an attack is instinctive now. It’s what I used to do with Fabian when he was on a bender. Take them down. Immobilize. I jump on Arty, and he goes down on his knees. Not a trained fighter, then . In seconds I have him pinned on his back. The frantic clicking of cameras and shouts wash in and out as his arms flail at me, catching me on the face again, so I wrestle, trying to pin his wrists down. Definitely strong .

Suddenly, three huge guys in SWAT vests loom over me. One of them grabs my shoulders and hauls me off Arty like I weigh nothing, and I let myself be pulled up. As I take in the three security guards, one of them draws me away and guides me down the red carpet toward the street and a waiting line of photographer lenses behind a barrier. When I glance back to the entrance, Anna has disappeared.

“I need to find Anna Talanova and …”

“We have to move away from the building, Sir.” The guy taps his ear.

“Where did Anna go?”

His two colleagues are pinning down a struggling Arty Maroz, and the cameras are going berserk, people shouting questions at him.

“I’ve been instructed to escort you away from the venue.” He fiddles with his headset. “I hear you,” he says.

“What?”

“You can’t attend the event now, Sir. Our security policy is that anyone involved in a fight has to leave.”

“He punched me! I was restraining him, not fighting with him.”

“I can’t make a judgment about who started what, Sir. All guests who are part of an altercation are ejected immediately.”

“But I was restraining him! He tried to attack Anna Talanova!”

“That’s not our concern, Sir. You need to leave.”

A subtle whirring right behind his shoulder catches my attention, and a man with a video camera is recording our whole conversation. Is that a good or a bad thing? Arty Maroz is now on his feet and surrounded by more security guards, who he’s trying to shove past to get into the venue.

I take a deep breath and pull out my phone, and the guard’s hand shoots out. Presumably to stop me filming anything.

“I need to text Anna to tell her you’re throwing me out!” I gesture around at all the photographers. “I was her plus one. You think this whole incident hasn’t been recorded in great detail? There’ll be a slow-motion replay on the news.” What an asshole.

He doesn’t respond, just stares back at me. I shake my head and drop a message to Anna:

They’re saying they aren’t going to let me in. That I’ve got to leave.

What? Why?

Apparently, anyone who’s involved in an altercation is ejected. No exceptions. No discussion.

Hang on.

“What’s going on?” The voice comes from behind me, a man with a microphone leaning right over the barrier and trying to catch my attention. Maybe this is an opportunity to set the record straight at least.

So, I move his way and gesture at where Arty Maroz is standing now, shouting toward the venue.

“They won’t let me into the building because I tried to stop him attacking Anna Talanova,” I say.

“Don’t worry, Adam, we got it all on video,” the guy says, eyes flicking to the security guard who has followed me as I moved to the railings.

He knows my name? Yes, Adam, of course he does, you’ve been plastered all over the papers .

The journalist, or whoever he is, turns his microphone to the guard. “Adam Miller, Anna Talanova’s boyfriend, was blatantly attacked here. Why are you throwing him out?”

The security guard completely ignores him.

“Do you know who this man is?” I ask him as I gesture to where Arty is still arguing with a man in a security vest.

His eyes narrow. “Arty Maroz. Belarusian downhill skier. Anna Talanova’s ex.”

This journalist is surely getting the best footage and interview from this whole event!

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Now they won’t let me out!

Anna. I show the security guard my screen.

“Are you going to be responsible for Anna Talanova being imprisoned at your event?”

“They’ve shut her in?” the journalist says, hardly able to contain his glee.

“Hold on, Sir. Yes,” the security guard says, pressing his headset into his ear. “Yes. Yes.”

He takes my arm. “You need to come with me.”

The journalist grabs my hand and presses a card into it as the security guard drags me away from the barrier. When the journalist tries to follow us, two other guards appear from nowhere and start talking to him as I’m pulled away from the crowd on the red carpet.

“Call me!” he shouts after me. “We’ve got footage of the whole incident. I’ll tell your version of the story!” But the guard tightens his grip on my elbow and manhandles me around the corner of the building and down an alley.

“Where are you taking me? I need to …”

Ahead of us, a door on the side of the building opens to reveal an older man with a shaved head and popping muscles like a veteran Navy SEAL. He gestures at me impatiently. Are they letting me in now? As soon I’m over the threshold the first guy disappears, and the older man points me down a corridor, then places his feet wide and crosses his arms on his chest. God, these idiots , they like to look so hard. A white-hot fizz ignites in my chest.

He’s twice my size, widthwise anyway, but I trained to fight men like this, the guys who think they’re tough and that a gun will get them what they want. Often they aren’t all that, and Fabian taught me some of the dirtiest tricks I know, although I can’t use them in jujitsu. I’m being a jerk here, but fuck this , I learned to fight for a reason . It gives me a sense of power and control against exactly this kind of male assholery. Before he can react, I lash out with my leg and he goes down like a sack of potatoes, and I have his headset off and his Taser out of its holster in seconds as I immobilize him with his arms behind his back.

“What the hell?” he bellows into the glossy marble floor of the corridor.

“You tell your buddies to be more alert at events. I wouldn’t have had to do anything if you’d all been doing your job properly,” I hiss at him.

“Fuck off!” he shouts. “What the fuck?”

“I hope your teammates got footage of me taking you down, asshole,” I say. “Stop manhandling guests like you have the right to do it. You don’t. So don’t be surprised if one of them retaliates.”

I lever off him and walk off up the corridor, hands shaking. When I turn the corner, I lean against the wall for a couple of seconds and suck in a deep breath. It’s been so long since anything like this has happened to me that the floor tips up at me for a second. Come on, Adam. You’re fine. That was easier than most of the jujitsu competitions you’ve been in. I close my eyes and a flash of a laughing face and blonde hair whips through my mind. No, Adam. Why am I remembering that now? I glance down at my suit and dust off the knees of my pants, running a hand across my hair. A white corridor leads off to my right toward a roar of chattering voices and clinking glasses, and I head down it toward the noise.

The corridor brings me out into the main hall and a sea of guests. Everyone has champagne in their hand, and I draw in a deep breath, trying to dampen down the adrenaline as I scan for Anna’s silver dress. Where is she? I pull my phone out of my pocket. Breathe in, breathe out.

I’m inside now. Where are you?

A guy in a tuxedo appears at my elbow with a tray, and I give him a tight smile as I take a glass, staring down at my screen as the seconds tick past. Nothing. A woman in a group close to me laughs loudly, red lips pulled back over her white teeth, the men all with slicked-back hair and in dark suits. I start forward, weaving in and out of the crowd, scanning over the chandeliers and made-up faces. Ten minutes later, I could swear I’ve swept the entire floor and there’s no text and no sign of Anna. I chew my lip. What’s going on? Perhaps she’s in the bathroom? Or maybe they took her somewhere? Arty didn’t reach her, but she could have been shaken up by the whole thing. As I take a sip of champagne, I spy another security guard talking into his headpiece by a door at the back of the venue, so I head over to him.

“I’m the person who was attacked outside by Anna Talanova’s ex-boyfriend,” I start, as he narrows his eyes at me. Shit, maybe he knows I took his teammate down? “I’m trying to find Ms. Talanova, but I’ve swept the place and there’s no sign of her. She said they weren’t going to let her out.”

He holds up a hand and talks into an earpiece, then makes a beckoning motion with his hand. We head down a corridor at the back of the event to a room that contains three other security guards and a bank of screens. They all turn and eye me curiously.

“Is this the guy that took Jock down?” one of the men asks with a chuckle. Another man shakes his head.

“Any idea what happened to Anna Talanova?” my security guard says.

“The tennis player?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I saw her leave about fifteen minutes ago,” another man says. He starts doing something on one of the screens, rewinding video, and eventually I see a flash of silver.

“That’s her,” I say.

He slows the footage down and runs it forward again. Anna exits the side door to the venue into a waiting limousine. She’s gone home? The man peers up at me.

“That’s her, right?” he says.

I nod. She’s left me here? My heart clenches. Why would she go without texting me? Maybe she thought they weren’t going to let me in. Either way, I guess I need to try to find her. I take a deep breath.

“Okay, thanks, guys. What’s the best way out of here?”

“I’ll take you, Sir.”

At least they’re being more helpful now. No doubt worried about blowback or the way I took down that Jock guy. I shouldn’t have done that really, but I was so goddamn mad.

When I’m out on the sidewalk, I squint down at my phone. Anna’s apartment is about twenty blocks from here. Would it be a huge intrusion to go to her place? I want to check she’s all right. I could walk? Not fast enough. I pull up the Uber app and order a cab.

As I’m waiting, my phone vibrates in my hand:

I left! Arggh, Adam. I’m so sorry! I came out to find you, but my security said I couldn’t stay outside the venue, so they got me a car. I’m at home.

The tightness in my chest eases. She sounds okay. The thought of someone getting to her … That jerk almost did.

No worries. I’m on my way.

In no time, I’m sliding into the back of my Uber. It takes me forty minutes in solid traffic to reach Anna’s building, and I have no idea how to get in. But the doorman nods at me and calls up to the penthouse before sending me up.

When I arrive at the apartment, there’s a scampering of feet and Pepper appears, pink rabbit dangling from her mouth. I crouch down, and she jumps up at me, losing her rabbit in the process. Anna is right behind her, looking much like she did the first time I met her: wet hair and a makeup-less face .

“Adam.” Her face melts with relief. “God, I’m so sorry! I can’t thank you enough for what you did. They hustled me inside and wouldn’t let me out. When I got your message about not being able to get in, they got all weird with me and said I couldn’t leave. I threatened to sue them, and at that point I think they were happy to see the back of me!”

“Are you all right?” she adds, eyes flicking down and landing on my hands. When I look down, my breath catches at the scrapes and red marks all across my knuckles, the skin broken and bleeding.

“Oh, God, your hands! We need to get them cleaned up.”

I grunt. I’m fine. She’s the one who has to put up with Arty. My grazes are a minor inconvenience compared to that. “Don’t worry about it. I just wanted to check and make sure you were okay.”

But she’s already turning and beckoning me down a corridor, and she pushes through a door into a marble bathroom, opening and closing cupboards. She pulls out hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and antibiotic ointment, and so I sink down on the toilet seat.

“I’ve had so many injuries diving for tennis balls, I’m an expert on scrapes and bruises at this point.” She gives me a half smile. “Let’s have a look.” She takes my hand and examines my knuckles, and her fingers are warm and comforting. Where her dark head is bent toward me, her hair is falling forward, so I reach up and push it over her shoulder without thinking. But she raises her head and her wide eyes meet mine, warm pink lips only inches away.

She licks them, and I can’t help but follow the path of her tongue.

“God, I’m so sorry you got hurt like this,” she says, voice hoarse in sympathy or something else … I’m not sure.

I look down, cheeks heating, and shake my head. “Anyone who fights as a hobby is always messing up their hands.”

Fortunately, she laughs. “I’m sorry I missed your messages. My phone started blowing up.” She bites her lip. “I wasn’t sure what to do. I thought Arty might persuade them to let him in. It seemed sensible to leave.”

I reach out and touch her elbow. “It’s no problem. Not my usual Friday night out, but at least the jujitsu came in useful.” I grin at her. “It’s a long time since I used it for actual fighting.”

But she doesn’t smile back. “It will be all over the news sites tomorrow, Adam. Ugh. I’m so sorry to drag you into this nonsense.”

“I’m fine. I talked to a journalist outside.” I fill her in on the guy with the microphone. “He said he’d videoed it all.”

She nods, chewing her lip as she turns back to the sink and turns on the tap. “We might need that footage. I should talk to my lawyer, and I’ll let the PR team know. We could get ahead of this whole thing if we feed them the true story. Find out how much they videoed.”

She adds some soap to the water and dips cotton wool into it. The pants of her tracksuit are molded to her ass, and God, I should not be checking her out but … I don’t think I can ever tell her how much I like her tracksuits. She turns around and dabs at the wounds on my hands as I try not to stare at her lips again. It takes a second before the sting kicks in. I wince.

“One of the guys I was in college with, Fabian, got himself into trouble all the time. I quickly realized that, if I was going to hang around with him, I needed better defense skills. I’ve done jujitsu for years, but I also fought with Fabian, and he lived on the street at one time, so he taught me some mean tricks.” I laugh. “I competed while I was at college until other things got in the way.”

She grins at me. “You’re a man of many talents.”

I smile, shaking my head. “Concentrating on one thing is a more fruitful idea, I think, and I’m better at defense than attack. I feel like that’s the story of my life.”

She tips her head. “Defense is an underrated skill. Have you ever heard of the loser’s game?”

“No.”

She squeezes out the cotton wool in the sink and turns back to dab at some more cuts on my hands.

“It’s a concept from a research paper on strategies for winning games. In some games you can increase your chances if you simply try not to lose . You don’t have to go on the offensive; you basically wait for the other side to make a mistake. Unless they’re very good, people always make mistakes.”

God, this woman. “Wow. Is tennis like that?”

She reaches around and picks up the antibiotic ointment, smearing some on her fingers.

“Until you reach the highest levels, yes. Then you get to the point that people make so few mistakes that you need to switch strategies.” She gives me a crooked smile. “There I go, being a nerd about tennis again.” She starts rubbing the ointment over my cuts, and I stare down at her hands. It’s such a long time since anyone touched me like this.

“There. That’s not too bad now, I think. Would you like a drink? I feel like I’ve turned your life upside down. Like we started with something that was useful for a bit of publicity, and it’s taken a sharp right turn into crazy town.”

I like Anna—she’s good company. For some reason I don’t want her to think whatever we’re doing here doesn’t work for me. It’s surprising in so many ways.

“A glass of wine would be very welcome,” I say, as I stand up and we head out of the bathroom and down the corridor into a beautiful high-ceilinged kitchen. “And don’t worry about me, I’m used to insanity. If you ever meet Fabian, I think you’ll probably understand.”

She laughs. “That sounds like fun.”

“Are you okay? That asshole appeared out of nowhere.”

“I’m a bit shaken up, to tell you the truth. I haven’t ever really needed security in the USA, although I’ve employed some people in Russia in the past, but tonight …” She blows out a long breath as she retrieves a bottle from the fridge. “I’ve only had one or two incidents where people got persistent. Most people are really nice. That’s the first time someone has tried to do something more serious.” She shakes her head. “I mean it was Arty, not some fan, so to some extent it’s my fault. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”

She pulls two glasses from the cupboard and pours the wine.

“God knows, it’s not your fault, Anna. You should have punched him with that amazing right arm of yours.”

Fortunately, she laughs as she passes a glass to me and raises hers to her lips .

“I could teach you jujitsu if you like?” I add.

“Ha! That would be great. I did do some martial arts when I was younger, judo and things like that.” She laughs again. “I was too competitive and got into a bit of trouble about fighting too hard. I thumped a girl in the face … sort of by accident?”

Now I start to laugh. “Sort of by accident?”

She smirks. “Well, she was a real bully, and all through our fight she was smack-talking me and cheating, trying to pull illegal moves. I got an opportunity to put her in a choke hold, and my hand slipped and I ended up punching her in the jaw. Of course, it was a foul, but she went down like a felled tree, howling.”

I’m still laughing. “You’re scaring me now. What would happen if I taught you jujitsu?”

She grins back at me. “But you took him down so fast, Adam! You’re like this self-contained, mild-mannered guy but then, bang! He was on the floor in seconds. You’re much more ruthless than you look.”

“Martial arts are excellent for defense. You learn a lot of restraint techniques.”

She eyes me with raised eyebrows. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you avoided the more ruthless than you look comment.”

The buzzer echoes suddenly in the quiet of the apartment.

“I wonder who that can be?” With a frown, she disappears out of the kitchen to the intercom and I follow her.

“Ms. Talanova, Arty Maroz is in the lobby …” the doorman starts, and Anna’s face goes white, and even from where I’m standing, I can hear shouting coming out of the speaker. She presses her hand to her lips.

I lean into the intercom. “Mr. Maroz attacked Ms. Talanova at an event earlier tonight. Can you keep him busy while I call the cops?” I pull my phone out of my pocket and press 911 as I’m talking.

“I don’t know, Sir, I …”

“Sir?” The shout echoes in the background, and there’s a loud crash.

I hand my phone to Anna. “Talk to the police. I’m going down to the lobby.”

Her eyes go wide. “You can’t do that, Adam! He could be dangerous.” She runs a hand through her hair. “God, why is he here? I thought what he did was just some stupid publicity stunt, that he was just trying to get attention.”

“I can’t leave that poor guy on the door to deal with it,” I say, and before she can stop me, I walk down the hallway and mercifully the elevator is still on the penthouse floor. I step inside, push the button for the lobby, and the doors slide closed.

As soon as I walk out into the lobby, Arty launches himself at me, but I’m ready for him, neatly sidestepping and managing to kick his legs out from under him. When he falls over, I jump on him and pin his hands down. But I’d forgotten how fucking strong he is. He kicks his legs, trying to buck me off and my knees slide against the polished marble floor.

“ Kozol! ” he shouts.

He wrestles a hand out of my grip, and I manage to deflect another blow to my face just before it connects. Come on, Adam, he’s all action and no skill . I jump off him. I need to get him on his front, and I circle around with my hands out looking for a grab.

“What are you doing, you mudak ! This is not a martial arts class.” He laughs as he watches me, running a hand through his hair, and that’s my opportunity.

I launch at his torso, twisting as we fall, and when we hit the floor, I manage to get him on his front and pin him there. Hallelujah! This almost never happens in jujitsu: My opponents are all too well trained. I twist his hand up behind his back. He squirms and kicks, but once you’ve got a hold like this, the person under you is going nowhere. Gah! my knuckles have started bleeding again.

The security guard scurries over, eyes bugging out. “Mr. Miller! Mr. Miller! Oh my God! I didn’t know what to do! I’m so sorry. He damaged the desk and the walls.” He gestures behind him. “I told him someone was coming down to talk to him.”

“It’s fine,” I grit out. “Can you find out if the cops are on their way?”

But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, the familiar wail of sirens reaches me from the street. Please let these sirens be for this prick. Sure enough, in seconds, three cop cars pull up outside the glass doors of the building and five cops lever out.

“This dickhead attacked me,” my friend on the floor shouts as soon as they come through the doors.

Jesus Christ, what is this guy on? But the doorman is outraged.

“What the fuck!” he yells. “This asshole came in here shouting and cursing, and now he’s damaged my desk and the walls.” He gestures to large gouges in the wood, and wow, that’s going to cost a mint to repair. “I’m in so much fuckin’ trouble here, man, you get me? I’ll have to pay it back ‘n’ all and … I’m gonna be fired and my old lady will be all up on my ass.”

Cops understand that doormen take a lot of shit in buildings like this: People wander in off the street, tenants complain, and they get sacked, and they don’t have anything to defend themselves and they don’t get hazard pay for dealing with people like Arty Maroz, who’s now squirming underneath me. Cops are always on their side. One of them heads over to me, nodding as he takes his cuffs out of his waistband, and he leans over to where I’m holding Arty down on the floor. I maneuver so he can slap them around his wrists. As I shift my weight off him, Arty kicks out, catching me on the ankle.

The cop hauls him up. “Hey, asshole, none of that unless you wanna be tasered for resisting arrest. You want to tell me what all this is about?”

“This is bullshit! I’m an Olympic skier.”

“I don’t care who you are, buddy.”

“He’s an ex-boyfriend of Anna Talanova,” I say. “He attacked her at an event tonight, I ended up restraining him, and now he’s turned up here.”

“She shouldn’t be out at an event where any crazy can get to her. It’s not safe,” Arty says. “I would never let her …”

What is this guy on? “What’s with the sudden show of concern? You cheated on her, you asswipe. You don’t get to dictate what other people do: That’s called restricting personal freedom. You’re the only one who’s putting her in danger,” I say.

“And you are?” The officer standing next to me says.

“A friend of Ms. Talanova who accompanied her this evening. It was a big event. If you need evidence, everything I’ve told you will have been captured on video.”

“Camera footage. Sweet. That kind of thing makes my job a helluva lot easier,” the officer mutters.

“Is that that cute chick that played in the Billie Jean Cup?” the other cop says, eyebrows raised.

“Yes.”

“You’re that tech guy who’s been dating her, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit. Are you an idiot?” he says to Arty, who glowers back at him.

“You got security cameras in here?” the other cop asks the doorman.

“Yes. Yes.” The doorman’s face relaxes a bit.

“She want to file a complaint?” another officer asks me.

“Let me speak to her.”

When I call Anna, she hems and haws about complaining to the police and the potential repercussions with Arty’s father, but eventually agrees to speak to her lawyer. One of the officers talks on his walkie-talkie for a while, as two more manhandle Mr. Olympic Skier into the car outside. Two of the cops come up in the elevator with me, and Anna gets her attorney on speakerphone and they all talk to Anna for over an hour. One of the officers encourages her to file for a restraining order, and her lawyer approves.

After they’ve gone, she blows out a long breath and pads into the kitchen. “You want a soda or some vodka or a whiskey or something?”

“You have these things?”

“I’m not a total killjoy.” She smirks at me and heads toward the kitchen, and I rise up from the couch and follow her. She’s standing staring out the window at the lights of New York outside. It’s past 11 p.m. now.

“Are you okay?”

She turns her head to look at me, and her eyes are faintly pink. “My life is such a mess, Adam”—she spreads her hands—“You’re a good guy and I’m connected to a bunch of awful people, and I know we said we’d be friends, but I don’t want to drag you into something that puts you in danger. ”

I walk over to where she’s standing by the countertop and reach up and touch a finger to her shoulder and she turns her head. She’s so strong and vulnerable all at once. I don’t want to give this up.

“I think we could both do with a friend we can trust in our lives right now. If you want to make it transactional, I’m helping you and you’re helping me, but it doesn’t feel transactional to me. I want to help. I enjoy your company, and we have fun together.”

She gives a choked little laugh. “Thanks for saying that. I enjoy your company, too. Sometimes I think I’ve managed to escape my past, and then it comes and bites me in the ass.”

“Your past?”

She hesitates, staring out of the window again. “Arty, you know?”

Why do I think she was going to say something else? “Yeah.” I give her hand a squeeze. “Would you like me to stay?”

Her eyes widen, and my face heats. I gesture around. “To keep you company, bunk down on your couch or something.”

She laughs. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch. This place has five bedrooms.”

I laugh. “Of course it does. Do you ever use them all?”

“When my parents come to stay, yeah. My sister, sometimes.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yes. They’re all still in Russia. She’s a swimmer. Arty’s father might try and make trouble for them.” She chews her lip.

These glimpses into her life come out bit by bit, like puzzle pieces she’s carefully placing into my hands, one by one.

“We’ll sort Arty out.” I reach out and squeeze her forearm.

“Thanks for offering to stay. It’s nice having someone else around.” She blows out a long breath. “Let me show you your bedroom.”

She moves across the large open-plan kitchen and living area and heads down a long corridor that appears to have no doors at all. But then she stops and presses on a panel, revealing a room with a thick patterned carpet and textured cream walls .

“This is beautiful,” I say.

She grins and gestures to a door on the left-hand wall. “I had an awesome designer. The bathroom’s through there.”

She studies me for a second before taking a step forward and wrapping her arms around me. I almost jerk away. I haven’t been hugged by a woman like this in a long time, and my body stiffens reflexively. I force my hands up and rest them on her strong back, muscles shifting under my fingers.

“Thanks so much for today,” she mumbles into my shoulder.

My head brushes against hers as I nod. I breathe in roses and something more, a soft caramelly smell, like she’s been eating toffees.

And the sad softness I’ve been feeling for Anna morphs into something else entirely.