“Have one,” Bea says, lifting the tray of fizzing coup glasses closer. I take an involuntary step back. “It’s champagne, James, not a Molotov cocktail.” “Drinks in your hand are not just drinks, Beatrice. They’re projectile missiles.” “Wow,” she says. “You’re one hell of a—” Before Bea can finish whatever insult she was about to throw my way, the swinging door opens right into her. Instead of insults, she throws six glasses of ice-cold champagne straight onto my pants.
