“You’re impressively pale,” I say. “So I’ve heard.” “I love it.” “You do?” His cheeks turn a gentle shade of pink. He sounds genuinely surprised. “You remind me of the Scandinavians who travel to the Big Island for the Ironman race. When I was a kid, I’d see them jogging and swimming all over the island to practice for it. They were milky white and ripped to hell, just like you.”
Stop talking.
