“Yes, yes,” I splutter, grabbing for my water glass and gulping some down. “I’m okay.” I cough a few times. “Funny guy.”
“For what it’s worth, I wasn’t really kidding,” he says as he returns to his chair. “Maybe we can work something out. Your cooking skills in exchange for a twenty-four/seven security detail.”
“You can be my muscle.”
“I’m telling you, it’s a solid trade.”
We lapse into silence for a bit as we eat—or rather, I eat while Ben shovels. He powers down three tacos in the time it takes me to get through one. So much for those leftovers.
When he finally comes up for air, he clears his throat. “Okay. Twenty questions.”
“That sounds like a bad idea.”
“Come on, I’ll keep it aboveboard.”
“Fine. But we alternate the question asking. And we both have to answer each question,” I add as an afterthought. He’s not going to slip anygotchaquestions in on me.
“Deal. Okay, I’ll start.” He thinks for a second. “Have you ever pictured me naked?”
I drop my fork and it clatters onto my plate.
“That was a joke. Just warming you up.” His eyes are twinkling. “Let’s see. Favorite food.”
I blink a couple of times, still recovering. “Um, that’s easy. Da—”
“Dark chocolate,” he answers before I can get the words out.
I pause. “How’d you know that?”
“I pay attention.” He winks. “My favorite food is what I’m currently eating. And I need a reload. Your turn.” He stands and heads for the kitchen.
“What do youreallythink of the president?”
“No comment,” he calls out. When he gets back to the table, he pauses. “No work questions.”
“Fine.” Probably for the best. “If I looked at your cable history, what would I find?”
“Fox Business, ESPN, reruns ofThe Office.”
Of course he saysThe Office. I wonder if we’re watching the same episodes from our apartments every night. The thought makes my heart smile.
“What about you?”
“Too many to count.” He needs to ask the next question before I blurt out that we’reOfficesoul mates. I’m one margarita away from asking him to be the Jim to my Pam. “Your turn.”
He grins. “Least favorite thing about me.”
“I can only pick one? Your party affiliation,” I say, holding my nose. “How about me?”
“Don’t have one.”
I guffaw. “Nice try.”
“What? I’m trying to earn more dinners here.” He drains the last of his margarita and holds it up in acheersgesture. “This was really good.”
“Thanks.” I pick up my own glass and swirl it around. “What’s in the file with my name on it?”
He freezes, and I have to stifle my laugh. I don’t think he thought this game through.
