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I giggle. “You know what I mean.”
“You want a normal date?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He smirks and sips his champagne. “Date me.”
The thing about champagne is this: you are supposed to drink one or two glasses to celebrate an event.
Not drink three bottles until you are both laughing uncontrollably at the table.
The conversation never runs dry with us. We laugh and chat as if we are old friends.
And although we are completely different, we are on the same wavelength. We have the same sense of humor.
I’m not imagining it; this is way more than sex.
“Okay.” Henley smirks. “Ten things.”
“What?”
“Tell me ten things about you that I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” I narrow my eyes as I try and think. “Umm.” I twist my lips. “One . . . I love sex.”
“I know that already. That doesn’t count.” He sips his champagne and smiles like a loon.
He likes this game.
I giggle. “Right.” I think for a bit. “Two . . . I wanted to be a ballerina when I was a child.”
“Why aren’t you?” He frowns.
“Because I have two left feet and dance like a baboon.”
“I did notice that.”
I laugh out loud, and he does too.
“Three . . . I hate cilantro with a passion. I’m even in the I Hate Cilantro Facebook group.”
He frowns as he listens. “There’s a Facebook page for that?”
“Uh-huh.” I giggle, and he does too. Why is everything we say to each other hilarious?
“Go on, seven more things,” he says.
“Four . . . I’ve never had a lesbian fantasy.”
“Oh . . . not a fan of that one.” He screws up his face in disappointment. “Please lie to me and tell me you have.”
“Okay, I take that back.” I laugh again. “Five . . . every night I dream of having a threesome with a guy and another girl.”
“Better.” He raises his champagne glass toward me.
I smile goofily.
He’s so fun.
