Chapter 4
As we eat, we drift in and out of conversation, sticking to small talk and flirtatious chit-chat when we do speak, since the waiter is never far from our table. It’s Greg who suggests maybe he’s hovering around in the hopes of being invited to a threesome, which sets me laughing so hard, wine snorts out my nose and my sinuses burn the rest of the evening. “He’s so not my type,” I say, coughing into a cloth napkin after the waiter has mopped up the mess I made.
“What is your type?” Greg wants to know.
I look at him openly. “You. The moment I saw you, I knew Lisa would approve.”
“She sounds like one hell of a lady. I wish I’d had a chance to know her.” He raises his glass, and waits for me to raise mine, which has considerably less wine in it than his. “To Lisa.”
“Love you, sw
