Fuck.
Then, her eyes roll back in her head, and I feel my hard-on straining against my fly, getting worse as she moans in enjoyment. She sucks back her milkshake like a champion, right before my eyes, until it’s pretty much all gone.
“Holy fuck,” I breathe.
She giggles and lets out a little burp. “I didn’t know America’s golden boy was allowed to swear.”
“And I didn’t know a tiny little thing like you could mainline milkshakes like water,” I say in astonishment.
She wipes the back of her mouth and smiles. “Listen, I’m a slag for strawberry anything, and I haven’t had a proper milkshake in years.”
“A slag?”
“A slut,” she says cheekily. “But, you know, in a proper British way.”
“I see.”
She finishes the rest of the glass with a slurp and gives me a satisfied look.
“You don’t mind if I take my time with this, do you?” I gesture to my glass.
“Not at all.”
I have another sip of my milkshake then slide it toward her. “Here. Try it.”
She shakes her head, her lips pressing together tightly.
I frown. “You don’t like chocolate.”
“I love chocolate. It’s just that I’m rather full after that.” She pats her stomach.
“Just a sip,” I say, sliding it toward her another inch, feeling like I’m being challenged. “Come on.”
Something flashes across her eyes. Fear?
“I have a cold,” she protests. “I mean, I’m afraid I might be coming down with something. I don’t want to give you my germs. Could you imagine?”
“Don’t worry. I don’t get colds. I don’t get sick. One of the many benefits of having my body genetically engineered.”
She stares at me for a moment, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what her problem is. Perhaps she’s one of them germaphobes. Can’t really blame the girl, not with so many viruses and pandemics floating around the world the last couple of decades.
Then, she reaches over and taps the straw dispenser in the middle of the table.
“Just a sip,” she says as she sticks the new straw in the glass, barely submerging it in the milkshake. She gives me a sweet smile, leaning forward as we both drink from the shake at the same time.
“Goddamn wholesome as fuck,” I hear Danny murmur to himself, and I look over to see not only him watching us with dry amusement, but the crowd outside of the diner, filming and taking photos through the glass. This is going to be on the front page of every media in ten minutes flat.
Meanwhile, Mia keeps sipping, even as she lifts the straw out of the glass and places it back in the empty strawberry one. So she really is a germaphobe. Duly noted.
“Your turn,” Mia says, pushing my glass back toward me, and it takes me a moment to remember we’re in the middle of an interview and not two horny teenagers sharing an afterschool treat. Or at least, one horny teenager. Seems she’d keep her germs to herself.
“Childhood,” she goes on. “Montana. What was it really like where you grew up?”
Right. The serious stuff. The stuff I don’t want to get in to.
I should give her the press-approved version. Loving family, wide-open spaces, the wholesome American upbringing that looks so good in campaign materials.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Hard. Very fucking hard. My mother was an alcoholic. She died when I was fifteen.”
