“Your cracker. I want it.” “I was saving that cracker,” he says, chin tilted in defiance. “What were you saving it for?” “I was going to dip it in my white wine.” “Dip the cracker into your wine?” I hiss whisper. “Ryot, you realize we’re surrounded by the upper crust of people. They don’t dip crackers in wine.” “They might.” “They don’t,” I reply. “Maybe.” “Guaranteed, they don’t.” I reach for the cracker, but he slaps my hand away. “Keep your sticky paws away from my cracker.”
