“Your dad did, too,” he adds, and I can hear the taunt. I pinch my eyebrows together. Was that a dig? “My dad had pretty hands,” I muse, taking a sip without looking at him. “So real men use chainsaws and pick-up trucks instead of Mont Blancs and cell phones?” I ask. I turn my head, peering up at him, and he narrows his blue eyes on me. “Well, he’s dead now,” I tell Jake. “You win.”
Oh snap
