I snort. “Sure it is.”
“I like to earn respect.”
“Been a long time since a man’s earned that from me.”
He watches me.
Doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t drink more of his tequila.
I drink more of mine.
I shouldn’t, but the tequila is in control of my decisions now. And honestly, I could go for some nice, solid, alcohol-induced amnesia about tonight.
“Do you have food?” I ask.
“Yes. Unless you want mushrooms.”
I don’t know what my eyes are doing, but there’s horror coming from everything I was taught growing up, and intrigue from every part of me that I suppressed in an effort to be a good girl who wouldn’t burn in the pits of hell for all eternity.
“I’ve never done mushrooms.”
Is that my voice?
That husky, intrigued voice?
“Portabellas,” he says. “Two-year-old cleaned me out.”
“Oh.”
“Dragon fruit’s gone too.”
“You have a two-year-old?”
“Beck’s two-year-old.”
“Ava.”
“You know Ava?”
“Doc’s seen her occasionally when they’ve been out here. Toddlers get sick all the time.”
“She called me ugly.”
“You’re having quite the day.”
He smiles again, and then he’s in motion.
It’s not chaotic motion though.
Just smooth, slow movements taking him where he needs to be. “Hope you like grilled cheese.”
“Like popcorn better.”
“Buttered?”
“With garlic and parm. Sometimes cinnamon sugar. But not together.”
