“What the hell is that?” “What’s what?” Riley glances down. He snorts and reaches into his left pocket. “A lime.” “Do you regularly carry fruit around with you?” “No.” He tosses it in the air, catches it, and switches it to his other hand. “I wasn’t sure Maverick had any. I stopped at the store on the way over.” “You—” I blink. It feels like I’m missing the punchline of a joke. “I’m confused.” “You mentioned you liked limes in your drink. Didn’t know if that only applied to cocktails or all forms of fluid.” “When did I mention that?” “June,” he says simply, and he leaves it at that.
