“
“You like me, though. You want to go on a date with me.” It wasn’t a question.
“Cocky much?”
“Confident. Don’t be mistaken.”
“Why do you want to take me out so badly?”
“Fishing for more compliments, are we?” He’d caught me, but went on anyway. “Obviously you’re beautiful. You have nice, you know, legs and . . . stuff.”
“You’re laughing. I don’t think I’m really your type. I think you’re messing with me. I’m not at all like Charlize Theron.”
We pulled up to my car but he let Charlize idle before getting out. “You are so my type. Charlize—at least the actress—is not. I mean, she’s gorgeous, in a blond, Amazonian, I-might-kill-and-eat-my-own-young kind of way, but I like your look better.”
“Oh yeah? What’s my look?”
“There’s something dark about you . . . and interesting. Your creamy skin, your black hair. The way you move. Your mouth.” He reached out to touch my cheek but I jerked away, breaking the seriousness of the moment.
“What do you mean I’m dark?”
He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I want to get naked with you and a Ouija board.”
I burst out laughing.
“And your laugh . . . it’s like the sound of someone squeezing the life out of a miniature trumpet. It’s really cute.”
“That is not a compliment. I have a nice laugh. And by the way, your voice is nasally when you’re not trying to impress people.”
He held his hand to his chest like he was offended, except he was still smiling. “I’m crushed. Penny, whatever your last name is—”
“Piper.”
“Ha! Penny Piper? You’ve got to be kidding! That’s either a children’s book character or a porn star’s name. Penny Piper picked a peck of pickled pep—”
“Stop! I know, trust me. I have to live with this name. My poor sister’s name is Kiki Piper. Like we’re fucking hobbits or something.”
“Penny Piper is worse than Kiki Piper, hands down.”
I cocked my head to the side. “Thanks.”
“Just sayin’. What’s your middle name?”
“Isabelle.”
“I’m gonna call you PIP Squeak.”
“Thank you. I can’t wait.”
“And by the way, I happen to have a deviated septum. That’s why my voice sounds like this sometimes, you asshole. Now get out and help me with your car.”
As we stepped out, he pointed to my Honda and said, “Try and start it when I tell you.”
I stopped and turned to him. “What’s your middle and last name?”
“Gavin Augusta Berninger.”
“Regal,” I said with a wink.
“I know, right?” He shrugged one arm like he was royalty or something.
“Is that French?”
“Yeah, my dad’s family is French . . . sort of. Like, his great-great-grandfather came from France. No one in our family even speaks French.”
“Hmm, not so regal anymore,” I said.
“Whatever, Penny Piper.
”
”