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“No clue,” I say, slicing a hand through the air. “He had no clue.” Delaney gives me a side-eye stare, complete with a fully arched eyebrow. “Sounded like he actually had a pretty good clue and you denied it,”
Except, I know I won’t do that, and it’s not simply because he looks like the cover model for Bon Appétit’s “Chefs I Want to Bang” issue.
But, oh shit. I just requested two drinks. God, I sound like a lush. Why don’t I ask him to thrust a glass in each of my hands, so I can double-fist and guzzle till I pass out?
