Minutes later, I hear a light tapping, and Castro comes jogging back down the stairs. His shadow from the upstairs light casts downwards as he moves. Entering the kitchen again, he stops in front of me, takes my clutch bag and places it on one of the bar stools. He lifts me up and sets me down on the worktop, and I flinch as the marble chills my backside to the bone. Even through the thick, gorgeous fabric of the dress, it’s still unforgivingly cold. He gives me an all-knowing smile as he rounds the centre island to the fridge. He moves with such agility; I can’t help but imagine...