"The staff all seem to know you," she points out. "So either you're a regular or you're their boss." Imogen laughs, but it's a bad joke. Then he starts complementing her appearance and Imogen can feel herself blushing a little, in spite of herself. She's not used to this much attention, not this kind of attention. She's always dreamed of being famous, of having this kind of wealth all for herself but now that she's experiencing it, part of her wants to retreat back into tattered denim and the rest wants more.

"Thank you," she says again for lack of anything else to drive the conversation. He's so dazzlingly beautiful that it's hard to focus. Or maybe that's the concussion. "I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't come along. I've been singing on street corners for months and this has never happened before. I'd never felt unsafe." She rubs again, unconsciously, at the bruise on her neck, the one covered up by that beautiful, tasteful Dior dress.