And it’s why I’m now stripping my shirt over my head in what Heath has told me used to be the gift shop so that I can try on a tie-dyed style Makepeace Cellars shirt.
“Please put your boobs away,” Heath says.
He’s leaning on the counter, staring at my chest, his fifth glass of wine almost empty.
I hiccup.
He giggles.
“You’ve already seen it all,” I remind him.
He lifts his glass in a toast. “We’re even.”
“To even!” I cry, lifting the shirt I found like a glass. “Cin cin!”
The chicken in the corner bagocks, then lays an egg.
Heath and I look at it.
Then at each other.
The world spins a little when he makes eye contact with me, but that has to be the wine.
I’ve had two and ahalfglasses—more than my limit—and everything’s warm and fuzzy.
In my head.
In my heart.
In my vagina.
Heath chokes on his wine, and I realize I said that last part out loud. Possibly all of it. Definitely the vagina part.
“Did I tell you about my sister Belle’s promotion party?” I ask him while I pull the shirt on.
“Three times,” he confirms.
We stare at each other again.
And then we both crack up.
This is nice.
Also, I don’t think I can count right now.
“My dicks are parents,” I announce.
He giggles.
The chicken clucks at me.
“Myparentsaredicks.” So I’mthisdrunk. Heh. Fun. “They’ve never forgiven me for being the child to finally send my mother to plevi—pavel—pelvicfloor therapy.”
“My mom’s a pelvic floor therapist.”
I stare at him. “No.”
He grins.
