12. Twelve
TWELVE
F ighting with Tallulah was my new favorite cardio.
She made a big show of being “over” it, but I could tell she liked the sparring as much as I did.
We were careful not to let things get out of control—Kyla wouldn’t stand for it—and we’d both become masters at needling one another but only when our boss wasn’t around.
When Kyla made an appearance, we were adults.
As soon as she was gone, we were the opposite of adults.
“How are the genital warts?” she asked in a voice only I could hear as she passed behind me, carrying a tray laden with drinks.
The only man at the blackjack table—Arthur Blackstone—was so focused on his cards that he didn’t bother looking up. He owned ten of the biggest car dealerships in the state, and rather than travel with an entourage, he preferred gambling alone. That made me like him.
“Oh, you know,” I replied in breezy fashion. “They sting some. Probably like those pimples you popped on your ass last night.”
Tallulah stopped moving and pinned me with a dark glare. “I believe you’re getting me confused with whatever whore you’re currently dating.”
I managed to keep a straight face, but it took effort. “No, I just read your diary.”
She snorted. “As if I still keep a diary.”
“Really?” I cocked my head. “I thought for sure Zach said you had a diary. Maybe Olivia told him about it or something. I believe it reads, Dear Diary, I wish Ronan would look at me like I look at cheesy fries .” I mock clutched at my heart.
“Cheesy fries?” She snorted. “I’m not a cheesy fries fan.”
“Who isn’t a fan of cheesy fries?” I was honestly flummoxed. “I mean, cheesy fries are the best thing ever invented.”
“No, that’s doughnuts.”
“Ah, so you’re a fan of the sweets instead of the salty.
Since you run salty, that doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.
I guess I’ll have to take your word for it, though.
” I flipped a card for Arthur’s benefit, and he won the hand.
He didn’t react. There was no pumping fist or smile.
He simply sipped his cocktail and waited for me to deal again.
“Everybody knows that chili is better on fries than cheese,” Tallulah argued. She refused to let it go, which was one of the things I both loved and hated about her. She was like a cat with a feather toy. “Cheese only belongs on vegetable trays.”
I made a face. “Um … cheese belongs on everything.”
“It does not.”
“Cheese makes everything better.” I would die on this hill. “Name one thing that cheese isn’t better on.”
“Ice cream,” she replied, not missing a beat.
I opened my mouth to argue, but she had a point. “Well … wait.” I shook my head. “There’s cheesecake ice cream.” I cast her a triumphant look. “Ha!”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not real cheese.”
“Um, the word cheese is right in the name.”
Agitation had her nose wrinkling, which only served to make her more adorable. Damn her. I didn’t want her to be adorable. “Chili is better on fries.”
I happened to adore chili on fries—it really was a good combination—but agitating Tallulah was more important than ceding that point. I would go without chili on my fries for the rest of my life if it meant winning this argument.
“Sorry. Cheese and fries are like ham and scalloped potatoes. You can’t have one without the other.”
“Oh, really, Grandma?” she shot back. “Scalloped potatoes?”
“You can’t tell me that you don’t like scalloped potatoes. That’s un-American.”
She wasn’t buying it. “If you say so.” She took off with her drinks and didn’t come back for thirty minutes.
“Do you know what cheese isn’t good on?” she asked.
I glanced over my shoulder at her, surprised she’d managed to sneak up on me.
Her perfume, which had an underlying base of cloves, usually warned me that she was incoming.
Apparently, she’d forgotten to put on her perfume today.
I hated to admit I missed it. “There’s nothing that cheese isn’t good on,” I replied.
Thankfully, Arthur had taken a break to stretch his legs and hit the bathroom, so the table was empty and he wouldn’t be subjected to the most inane conversation ever. I didn’t expect him back for at least another ten minutes.
“It’s gross on soup,” she replied.
“I take it you’ve never had a good French onion soup.” I looked at her through pitying eyes. “That’s too bad. The French onion soup at the bistro on the promenade is perfect.” I offered up a chef’s kiss to prove it.
“Is that why you’re currently lacking in the love department?” she asked. “It’s all the French onion soup you eat, isn’t it? Dude, let go of the cheese and embrace a woman. It will do you some good.”
The comment, which was no worse than the other comments we’d lobbed at one another over the course of the past month, grated for some reason. “Like you should talk. When was the last time you even had sex?” The question was out before I could reflect on the intelligence associated with uttering it.
That question right there could slide over into sexual harassment territory.
Not only was I not that person, but it also wasn’t fair to Tallulah.
She should not have to put up with that.
I’d seen her swallow her tongue more than once with the entitled guests when it came to similar sentiments.
I would not be the source of further strife in that department.
Before I could apologize, however, Tallulah burst out laughing.
“I bet I’ve had sex more recently than you,” she challenged.
“Really? Because I read in your diary you were worried about the cobwebs developing down there.”
She turned haughty. “You’ll never find out.”
“Good. I’m afraid of spiders.”
And off she went again.
I spent my afternoon with Arthur, who was a good tipper but quiet. Even though I was loath to admit it, I missed having somebody to talk to. Arthur preferred absolute silence.
On the other side of the lounge, Tallulah had made friends with two older women. They were betting on horse races. I wasn’t an expert, but from their whooping and hollering, I had to imagine they were winning.
“How do they feel about cheese on fries?” I asked Tallulah as she passed behind me to get more drinks. This shift was half over, but it felt as if it was dragging. She was the only one paying me any attention, and I felt suddenly desperate to keep the banter going.
Why was that?
I was bored, I told myself. Arthur was so quiet that I would take any form of conversation. It had nothing to do with who I was bantering with. I didn’t even like Tallulah. In fact, I hated her.
Except I didn’t hate her. Not even a little. I found her refreshing and not because of the underlying sexual tension in the way we communicated. No, it was because of her outlook on life.
Tallulah hadn’t been raised in opulence. She didn’t look at the vegetables on a tray and call them crudités . My father referred to macaroni and cheese as macaroni au gratin . He called the cardboard ring on his takeout coffee a zarf . He’d never met a situation he didn’t want to somehow elevate.
Tallulah had none of that in her. She didn’t put on airs. She was perfectly happy with a burger for lunch. Her shoes weren’t designer. Her smile was contagious, however, and she was perfectly happy being herself. I liked that, even if her tongue was razor-sharp at times.
Tallulah grinned at me before catching herself. She’d been doing that more and more often, which is how I knew she enjoyed the game as much as I did.
“I’m pretty sure they’re cottage-cheese-and-peaches ladies,” Tallulah replied. “I’m thinking prunes are part of their daily diet too.”
“You seem to be having a good time with them.”
She shrugged. “They have a lot of money, but they don’t act like it. They’re tipping really well too. They say I’m their lucky charm.”
“Ah, you do have a lot in common with a leprechaun.”
Her smile disappeared. “You’re kind of a pain in the ass.”
Kind of? I was going for the gold medal in the Pain in the Ass Olympics. Apparently, I needed to step up my game. “Like your hemorrhoids?”
“Like that stick you’ve constantly got lodged up your behind.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when I felt a presence move in at my left. For a moment—one terrifying second that seemed to stretch for a year—I was convinced Kyla had come to check on us.
When a giggle escaped—an adorable one—I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Hello, Olivia.” I greeted her with my smooth-and-creamy voice, the one I kept under wraps unless I was dealing with flirty women. I knew that it would irritate Tallulah, so I had no trouble using it on the boss’s wife.
“Ronan,” Olivia said on another giggle. Her stomach had finally popped to the point where she was obviously pregnant. With some women, it was hard to tell even late into the pregnancy. Olivia, however, had such a small frame that mistaking the reason for her growing tummy was impossible.
“How are you feeling?” I asked her.
“Oh, you know.” She ran her hands over her belly. “My back hurts a little bit. I’m retaining water in my feet.” She paused a beat. “The hemorrhoids are a bitch.”
I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh. Obviously she’d overheard Tallulah and me. “Well, hopefully that’s a temporary thing” was all I could come up with.
“Hopefully,” she agreed. Her gaze moved to Tallulah. “How come you didn’t tell me about your hemorrhoids? We could’ve bonded.”
Tallulah scowled at her. “Don’t give this idiot a reason for his head to swell more.”
Olivia cast me a sidelong look. “Is your head swollen?”
“Not as much as Tallulah’s hemorrhoids.”
Olivia giggled, a nice sound. Tallulah growled, and that sound was somehow nicer. It did something to my insides, something I couldn’t quite identify. What was that feeling? The only word I could use to describe it was a fluttering. It felt as if there were cicadas hatching in my stomach.
“You guys are so funny,” Olivia said. “You should have your own sitcom.”