Twelve
Trying not to be offended, Alastair straightened. “Did you just say crap-a-doodle-do?”
Her eyes were fixed on his. He’d never seen them so wide and…worried? Disgruntled, he told her, “That’s the first time anyone’s said ‘crap-a-doodle-do’ after I kissed them.”
“Don’t be offended. It was a compliment.” She slid the tip of her tongue across her lower lip, giving him a visceral reminder of how soft and giving her mouth had felt. Kissing her had been a sweet yet electric experience, though he wasn’t sure he’d truly given her the best kiss that he could. The taste of her had surprised him—rich and deep, like the ruby robustness of the best Chianti. He’d gotten thrown off his game.
Maybe that accounted for the “crap-a-doodle-do.” Which couldn’t possibly be a compliment, no matter what
