“Is this how you’re making tonight special? By talking about my taters at the dinner table?” My brow quirks. “Did you just call your breasts taters?” She shrugs and wrinkles her nose. “It’s what my mother called them growing up.” Her voice hitches as she mimics her mother’s deep south accent, “Don’t let your taters hang out of your blouse, Freya, or you’ll look like a proper harlot.” My shoulders shake with laughter. “Your mother sounds like a delight.” “Oh, trust me, she is. She’s a Catholic, wholesome, southern woman whose best friends were nuns. It’s amazing she didn’t end up in the convent
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