“Fine!” Gibsie huffed. “I didn’t want the roast spuds anyway. My mam’s are better.” “Gerard,” Claire coaxed. “It’s okay. You can have dinner with me.” “Can I eat you?” he asked, sounding playful once more. “If you’re good,” she replied, patting his shoulder. “What?” Gibsie’s voice rose so high, it was almost girlish. “I mean—” He roughly cleared his throat several times before adding, “What?”
