“That’s a month, not a birthday.”
“Progress.”
I laugh before I can catch it. She looks pleased for half a second before she hides it behind another fry.
“Favorite music?” she asks.
“Old country. Southern rock. Anything with enough guitar.”
“That is painfully on brand.”
“What about you?”
“Depends who I am trying to disappoint.”
I grin. “That answer I like.”
“I used to like pop music in the car,” she says. “Loud enough to make August laugh.”
“You sing?”
“Badly.”
“Good. Bad singing is honest.”
“What about you?”
“I ain’t singing unless someone has a gun on me.”
“This place looks like someone probably does.”
“Then I especially ain’t singing.”
She laughs nig. It hits me harder than it should.
“Any allergies?” I ask.
“That is romantic.”
“It’s useful.”
“No. You?”
“Authority.”
“That is not an allergy.”
“Tell that to my record.”
Her smile fades before she can stop it. I see the thought cross her face. Dangerous man. Criminal man. Bad choice sitting too close.
I keep my voice even. “Nothing involving women or kids.”
Her eyes come back to mine.
The answer ain’t pretty, but it’s necessary.
She nods. “Okay.”