Mac glares at me while maintaining his smile. “Just last week, you had an entire conversation with your salad about how if you could take a pill that made the lettuce taste like crisps, the two of you could actually be mates.” “That was a conversation between me and the romaine,” I quip, hating the way he mimicked my Cornish accent. No matter how hard I try to ditch it, that West Country twang slips out. “And you shouldn’t have been earwigging.” “You invited me over for dinner!”
