—CORUSCANT.
The crème de la crème of Casmire fine dining. The sort of place that tells movie stars to take a hike. Even saying the name out loud makes me feel poor.
"I don't think I can afford to eat there," I mumble.
"You can now," Andrew replies.
"Okay, fine, yes, your generosity has changed my station in life and I am eternally grateful—truly, I worship at your feet—but seriously, I don't know the right forks to use or how to pronounce the wine names or—"
"You'll be fine."
"Easy for you to say. You probably came out of the womb knowing which spoon is for soup."
A shadow crosses over his face, so dark and cold and sudden that I almost shiver. "Not quite." The hand resting on the console between us flexes and then straightens out again.
Before I can ask what he means, we're pulling up to Coruscant's valet stand. The building is a giant egg of black glass and graceful steel.
