Chapter Twenty
Adalia and Mike sat in his navy blue BMW 335i Coupe and stared at the hot dog mini-cart across the road. She’d already spilled ketchup on her blouse, but l*****g the napkin had only made the paper soggy and left little rolls of tissue all down her front.
“I’m glad we could have this chat,” Mike said, chomping down on the end of his dog. He didn’t spill a single drop of mustard, his leather seats were flawless, and he wasn’t jumpy about her messier eating habits.
“You spoke to Dad, didn’t you?” Adalia asked around a mouthful of meat and bun. She’d had two already and a third was perched precariously on his dash. A line trailed out from the mini-cart, mothers clutching their children, fathers yawing, businessmen compulsively checking their watches.
Mike didn’t have to answ
