“Hmm.”
Her face brightens at my confirmation.
“How cute!” She gestures to us both with a single finger. “We match.”
“How so?” I ask, sipping my beer and settling my ass against the railing.
“Spud means potatoes. My nickname is Aloo, which is Hindi for potatoes.”
“Ok Tater Tots, hit me with your best potato joke.”
She looks confused by my sudden ask but recovers just as quickly. “How did you guess I’d know one?”
“Comes with the territory of elite people who have matching nicknames.”
She huffs out a soft laugh and my gut tightens. God, she’s pretty. Something in the sweet, almost shy manner in which she holds herself is so utterly charming. Every time she pinkens, it makes me wonder how far that blush travels. If I get lucky tonight, I’ll find out.
“This is a really odd conversation,” she murmurs, bemused.
I snort, nodding in agreement. “But if we don’t lean into it, it’ll get awkward.”
She buys herself some time, glancing down at the yard as she gulps water. Hopefully, I can keep this dialogue going until the alcohol wears off. If, after that, she wants to escalate things, I’m game.
“What is a potato’s favorite movie?”
Too occupied with trying to outline the dip of her cupid’s bow, it takes me a moment to realize she’s said anything.
“Theo?”
“Huh?” I straighten. “Right, favorite movie.” I give it some thought, eventually shaking my head in defeat.
“Starch Trek.” She giggles, her good humor making me chuckle as well. Dammit, this is either the weirdest way to flirt. . . or the best.
“Who’s the most powerful potato?” I ask, waiting just a moment before answering her. “Darth Tater.”
The sweetest laugh erupts from her, her eyes glittering as the ambient lights above us turn on. The sky overhead darkens as evening blends into night, the atmosphere around us cozy and romantic.
“Here’s another one,” I continue. “Why did the potato salad blush?”
Her brows rise high in anticipation.
“Because it saw the salad dressing.”
A dainty hand covers her eyes as she dips her chin, shaking her head even as her shoulders tremble.
“That’s borderline inappropriate.”
“I thought it wastater-lyhilarious.”
“Any more bad puns and we’ll need ayam-bulance.”
I guffaw, delighted she is playing along. It’s hard to remember when I last laughed this easily with a woman I wanted to take to bed—and when her laughter in return seemed genuine.
The wind picks up, whipping strands of her hair around her face that she carelessly sweeps away. Something green sticks out from the side of her head and unthinkingly, I reach for it, pausing when she startles.
“You have something in your hair. May I?”
She relaxes, allowing me to pluck the leaf out. The pads of my fingers skim along her hairline, a featherlight graze that makes her eyes flutter delicately.