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“Pardon?” She frowned.
“Alaska. My boss wanted me to move there for eight months for this documentary project. I don’t like Alaska. Well, I’ve never been, but I never plan to either. Apparently, the only reason he insisted on my going was because I’m not tied down to New York. No family, no partner. I needed a responsibility.”
“Why do you hate Alaska so much?”
“That’s another story, for a much drunker time.”
She stared at me wordlessly, and for the first time in my life—in my entire years of goddamn living—I felt genuinely seen. It was exhilarating and terrifying and, above all, fucking weird. I filled the silence with more words.
“The drawback is I’m supposed to stick around here for a few months. I’ve never done that before.”
“You’ve never stayed in the same place for a few months at a time?” she asked from the other side of the room.
“Never.”
“Why?”
“Another story, foranotherdrunken time.”
“Do you drink to tackle uncomfortable situations often?” She frowned in concern.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” I clarified.
“An alcoholic usually doesn’t admit to being one,” she pointed out. “At any rate, I’m the same. I love a good drink. And I also love a not-so-good one, if I’m in a bad mood.”
“You might be able to hold a drink in.” I rose up to my feet and picked up my jacket and wallet. “But I’m an actualexpert. It took years of unaddressed emotional instability, daddy and mommy issues, and deep denial to get to where I am today.” I patted my torso.
“You’re not the sole proprietor of being damaged,” Duffy said with a sad smile. “I’ll have you know, I drink my problems away too. ’Tis the English way.”
Speaking of English, her throaty voice and sexy accent were doing weird things to my libido. I think they reverted it back to my adolescent years, because the only thing I could think of around her was sex.
“Yeah, well. Bet I can outdrink you with one liver tied behind my back.” I shouldered into my jacket.
“Rubbish!” she bellowed. “I can drink you under the table.”
“I can drinkandeat you under the table.”
I paused, realizing it didn’t sound good. Or, more accurately, it soundedverygood, but by the way her skin turned crimson, Duffy didn’t want my mouth anywhere near her Bermuda Triangle.
“Not that, I’d never do that.” I cleared my throat.Shit.Now I couldn’t unsee the mental image of me going down on her, slurping her juices like they were a sundae. “I meant, in terms of food—”
“Food. Yes. I love food!” She grabbed her broom for the millionth time, still sweeping the same spot. “Do you like food too? You must, I suppose. You’re quite the big guy ...” She faltered.
“I’m glad the eyeful at Gretchen’s impressed you.”
“Not big like that!” She was pale with horror now. “And, of course, I haven’t peeked. I mean, I don’t doubt that you are. Everything else about you is, well ...”
I cocked one eyebrow, daring her to continue. She moaned, slapping her hands over her eyes.
This was painful. And awkward. Andhilarious. Everything we said sounded sexual.
“What I meant was your height ... and width ...” She pantomimed with her hands. “Dear God, I feel like I’ve just taken my mouth on a test drive and I can’t find the brakes on the thing.”
“Just pull the hand brake,” I said with a laugh.
Her eyes dropped to my crotch.
“Notthathand brake, Duffy.”
