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“Your dad said it’s not official till you give the word. And you can’t give the word till you meet the son of a bitch?—”
“Hey, language. That could be my future husband you’re talking about.”
“Excuse me. Prince Charming,” he corrects himself. “Until the Pink Princess meets and approves of the King of the Russos, it’s a maybe. I’m gonna put it at a fifty-fifty.”
I wrinkle my nose at the name. “Pink Princess?”
“The backpack.”
I hold in a groan, telling myself to get a new bag. “That old thing? It’s missing a phone by the way.”
“It’ll be returned to you. Soon.”
“Anyway. fifty-fifty huh? Pretty good odds.” I take a long sip of the aromatic coffee.
“I’m being polite.” He cocks a brow.
“Why are you so against this marriage working out?” I ask.
He rubs the back of his neck, staring into his mug of coffee. “Not this one in particular. Just love in general.”
Something in his words makes me feel for him. I’ll do something nice. I can’t melt his heart of ice, but I can get him out of this dinner tonight.
“Listen, I’ll trade you something,” I say. “I know how to keep the evening short tonight.”
He raises his brows. “Really?”
Getting out of fake laughing at the older peoples’ jokes while listening to a million stories about my childhood?
I’ve piqued his interest.
“Really.” I nod.
“You have that kind of power over your party-planning mother?” He shakes his head. “Impressive.”
“Yeah. I’m surprising like that.” I don’t have to tell him all I have to do is ask her if she’s ready to curl up on the couch with a glass of wine and binge watch our reality shows one last time before I leave. She’ll be having guests packing it in by eight. “But you owe me one.”
“Fine,” he says. “What’ll it take?”
“Tell me about the gunshots last night.” I wrap my hands tighter around the warm mug, leaning closer. “What happened?”
“Oh. That.” He grimaces, looking away. He doesn’t want to answer the question, like he’s guilty of something.
“Yeah,” I demand. “That.”
“Honestly?” he says.
“Honestly. Yes. That’s what I’m looking for, honesty.”
He goes off topic, shaking his head, focused on the granite countertop. “You shouldn’t have run off.”
“Fair enough, but can you please stick to the gunshots. What happened?”
“I shot a couple rounds. Into the air. With my gun.” He gets up, crossing the kitchen to the coffee pot.
I swivel on my stool to face him. “What? Why would you do that? Was there a threat?”
“No.” He shrugs, filling up his mug. “I was tired. It had been a long day. I didn’t feel like chasing you into the woods.”
