“All right, all right,” I squeal, wriggling out of his grip. “I suppose I have time for dinner. I’m not changing my clothes, though.” He sweeps a look of disbelief over my gray sweatpants, hoodie, and messy bun. “It’s a nice restaurant.” “Are you saying I don’t look nice?” He pauses, then flashes me a plastic smile. “You’d look beautiful in a potato sack,” he says insincerely. He hoists me off the counter and sets me on my feet. “Come on.”
