There is no way our dads got anywhere near our mothers’ slot C’s.
Whatdya wanna bet?
They all went to college, but fuck if I could imagine any of them playing beer pong or pounding shots.
Mmmmm shots. Dancing. Dancing on tables. Man they missed out.
I slap my palms on the table, give it a couple of jerks—not that kind—and test it for durability.
Good ‘ol timeless stability… check.
Could double as a dancefloor in a pinch… check.
Wonder what it would look like holding a buffet of Jell-O shots. Move over gingerbread and carols, yours truly is calling for spiked eggnog and wrecking the halls!
Wooooowwwwww.
Switching to coffee now.
“Problem?” Chance’s clipped tone slices through the general breakfast chaos.
“Not at—Hic.”
Whoops.
Smooth.
Very dignified.
“Uh-huh.” He raises an eyebrow. His deadpan delivery lands like a sucker punch, and I’m the sucker.
“It’s fine. I’m totally fine.” Firmly on my way to better than fine once I find my dignity.
Slippery little bitch has to be around here somewhere.
Hic.
“Then do you think you could pass the syrup?"
“Of course, but first, what do you say?”
His gaze swings to mine, one eyebrow pitched in smug, smartassery form “Now.”
“Dick.”
“You have no idea, Squirt.” He snorts out a laugh that should have the appeal of the ol' lady cave during a sandstorm but, somehow, is charming.
The boob.
With a solid shove, I send the syrup gliding down the table, the pitcher coming to a perfect stop right in front of him. Not too drunk to operate syrup. Sweet. But still… coffee? Where the hell is that carafe?
"Anything else, Your Highness?"
The coffee sits just out of reach, but I’m sure as hell unwilling to ask him to pass it. Shoving to my feet, I reach across GI Jackass while he douses his pancakes in an obscene amount of maple syrup.
"That'll do, peasant."
Peasant.Peasant?
