'Along these lines, Eliza Andrews,' he says, pouring the last leftovers of the wine. 'What's your story?'
She has the impression he has delayed until the others are not there, as though it is something he alone might want to hear, or as though he has detected that she wouldn't be open to discussing herself before the gathering.
'Och, there's very little to tell,' she says.
'Goodness, come on. I bet there is.'
'I have a ten-year-old child.' If he objects to that, all things considered, she disapproves of him.
'Ten? You don't look mature enough. You're what? 25?'
'26.' She snickers, however Pierce doesn't, uncertain maybe whether he ought to. 'His name is Callie. He's an extraordinary child. I had him when I was sixteen. An incredible embarrassment.'
He smiles. 'I love a bit of outrag
