“Goodness, no. Idetestyou. You’ve put me in the same position my parents did all through my childhood, using me as a pawn in a lovers’ quarrel. I think you’re awful. And I rarely—hic!—think anyone is awful. Aside from my parents.”
My vision has crossed from the absolute glory that is this corn dog, so I can’t tell what that face is that Bea’s making at me.
And even if my vision were working, I daresay my brain isn’t up to it, so I don’t know that I would be able to decipher it regardless.
Oh, look.
The corn dog looks like a willy.
I giggle again.
“You’re very happy for a man having dinner with a woman he doesn’t like,” Bea says.
“I have the extraordinary talent of being able to be happy inanycircumstance.”
“Thatisa remarkable talent.”
“I trained myself—hic!—without any assistance from the people who should’ve wanted me to be happy. Heaven help me, I could eat three more of these.”
“Finish this one first.”
“Tell me another secret.”
“It’s your turn. You get to eat another corn dog when you tell me a secret.”
Fascinating.
I believe she’s right.
I try to do the maths in my head about our conversation, and I find I can’t recall what I just said, which means she must be right.
She’s not nearly as pissed as I am.
Drunk pissed. The good kind of pissed.
The enjoyable kind of pissed.
“Do I know any secrets?” I ask Bea.
“I’m sure you do. Tell me how you and Lana met.”
“I made a terribly inappropriate pass at her while serving her spotted dick, and she was unfamiliar enough with us Brits to be enamored with awful pickup lines delivered in my charming accent. Though if you ask me,sheis the one with the accent.”
I bite into the corn dog again and moan.
Her lips twitch up in a smile.
All six of them.
And her eight dimples.
What a treat, to watch Bea’seight dimples.
“You don’t drink much, do you?” she says.
“Never. I tell all of my secrets when I—hic!—drink too much.”
“Are you really mad at me for taking you to Jake’s grand opening?”
