“Th-thank you,” I stuttered out and immediately hated myself. I refused to be so easily taken in by a man I didn’t know. “Wine if you have it.”
“I prefer scotch myself,” he said softly turning to the small bar and opening a bottle, pouring me a glass along with one for Joy.
I shook my hand as he turned away. His touch lingered with me and I wondered if it was because of something in me or him.
Our conversation in the minute it took to sit down to dinner was so banal I don’t remember a word of it. That might have been the core of the problem. We were halfway through dinner before I remembered anything. My wine glass had been filled several times. I was dizzy from too much alcohol. I needed to be clear headed.
I didn’t know what I was saying, but my hand was on top of Joy’s.
And Bob’s.
