I clasp the small of her back, brushing my lips against her cheek noncommittally. “Winnifred, would it be improper to tell you that you look beautiful?” “No, which is why you wouldn’t do it.” I laugh. The most surprising thing about this boring, one-dimensional, cookie-making blonde is that she possesses wit. Or something that resembles it, anyway. She studies me intently, like a concerned parent. “Are you . . . okay?”
