Page 67 of Kiss My Glass
Then he takes a breath and fires up his laptop.
“Okay, hit me. What exactly have we let ourselves in for?”
ChapterThirty-Six
DANNY
It’s hard to focus on grilled sandwiches and Porta Potties when you can’t stop thinking about a quickie on the filing cabinet. But I do owe Frankie a sex favor, and I’m pretty sure she’ll expect better than wham bam on an aging set of metal drawers.
Uh-oh. She’s giving me the look. The one that means she’s asked me a question. That I didn’t hear.
“Seriously?” She knows exactlywhy I didn’t hear. “Not even the stapler threat worked?”
“I looked over at the filing cabinet,” I plead. “What can I say?”
“You can say, ‘Sure, Frankie, I’ll liaise with Farmer Johnston about the parking.’”
“I will do that. Noting it down now.”
“And you’ll need to hunt out last year’s signs and the store of hi-vis vests. And talk to Javi about volunteers who aren’t scared of turkeys.”
“Turkeys. Got it.”
“And pick one turkey to be our ritual sacrifice. Ensures a good vintage.”
“Ritual sac?—”
Oh, ha, ha.
“Anything else?” I say, with dignity.
She checks her notepad. “Seeing you and Ted are best buds now, you could politely ask him to make the mocktails with normal ingredients, not ones sourced from berry trees and seaweed.”
“I’ll mention it,” I say. “But it’s possible he thinks those ingredients are normal.”
Frankie pencils a tick and scans her list. “Done,” she says. “Phew. I need to let off some steam.”
Music to my ears.
But her next words are, “Let’s go play pickleball.”
She’s messing with me again. Has to be.
“I can think of a lot more fun ways to let off steam,” I suggest.
“Matches are short – thirty minutes max,” she says. “Plus, the time to drive to the courts, and lunch after because I do not skip meals. We’ll be gone for two hours tops.”
Twohours. We could have a lot of sex in that time.
Frankie notes my pained expression, but instead of relenting, she raises her eyebrow and says, “Afraid I’ll wipe the court with you?”
That’s it. My competitive urge is triggered.
“I’ll grab my gear and meet you by your car in twenty,” I tell her.
Of course, while I’m hanging around by the Karmann Ghia, who should roll up but Ava and Cam in the old Dodge, its cargo bed full of wine barrels.
Out they both get, Ava quickly, Cam the polar opposite of quickly. He’s wearing the summer version of his usual backwoodsman outfit – old jeans and a faded checked cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose his manly forearms. Ava’s in a black athletic tank top and cropped leggings. I, on the other hand,am wearing running shorts and a T-shirt that says, “Big Dink Energy”.
