Page 88 of The Thing About My Rival

It’s all I can do to stop myself tossing my dinner over her shoulder and dragging her onto the table.

“Excellent appetizer.” She smiles against my lips. “Ketchup or mustard?” Her eyes don’t leave mine as she reaches for the condiments and holds up a handful of sachets next to my face.

“Oh, you romantic old devil.” I take one of each. “I have to stop kissing you now anyway. My hot dog is getting cold.”

“Is that one of those odd British euphemisms?”

“Fuck, no.Thatdog is always hot.” I give her a cheesy wink. “For you, anyway.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“I usually don’t say much to girls at all.”

“Your reputation is all true then.”

“Nah. Way worse.”

She half rolls her eyes, the spark in them my favorite thing about teasing her—like she wants to be pissed off with me but can’t bring herself to be.

“You mean there could be a bunch of little Hugos running around across the globe?” There’s a hint in her voice that she might actually be concerned about that.

“Not a chance. I keep Mr. Happy fully wrapped at all times.”

“Mr. Happy?”

“Yup.”

“Are you fourteen?”

“No. But I was once. And you should have seen how happy he was then. All the time.”

She shakes her head like she’s given up on me as a lost cause and twists to face me, tucking one leg underneath herself. We set our dogs on the table and squeeze on the ketchup and mustard.

“You’re right about this, though,” she says. “The common is a good place to blow away the cobwebs of a shitty day. I haven’t been here since I’ve been back in the city.”

“And I didn’t bring you here just for the scenery.” I lick my fingers and turn to face the view. “See those kids over there?”

I point toward the open grass in front of us, where a group of ten boys, agesabout thirteen or so, are pacing out a rectangle and placing their backpacks to mark the corners.

“Yup.” She picks up her hot dog like she’s wrangling a writhing snake. “Christ, I need two hands for this.”

“That’s what she said.” I couldn’t help myself and fully deserve her exaggerated groan. “Sorry. It just slipped out.”

“That’swhat she said.” Her cheeky smirk is a fucking delight. Wilcox looks at the boys. “So what’s the deal with these kids?”

She opens her mouth so wide it looks like her jaw might dislocate, and shoves in the end of the hot dog. Okay, so this was a bad idea. I should have gotten sandwiches, or chips, or bloody salads. Because I have no fucking idea how I’m supposed to keep Mr. Happy under control when she’s shoving a gargantuan sausage into her mouth.

I unstraddle the bench so I’m also facing the kids, and cross my legs. “Watch them.”

“Wow. This is a great veggie dog, by the way. Usually the carts dish up something closer to tepid, moist cardboard.”

“Yup. Mario is the best.”

“You’re a regular then?”

“Regular enough. I don’t know anyone in Boston outside of work. So I sometimes just wander around.”

“And into random Irish pubs?”

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