Page 96 of The Lies I've Told
She shrugged. “You’ll never really know, will you? But can you make mine a rosé?”
I leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on her lips. “I think you’re full of rubbish.”
“Pull that one out of the old English slang archives, did you?” She laughed, palming my cheek.
“I did,” I answered with a wide grin. “But that one was rather tame. Most of what my brother and I threw around wasn’t exactly proper and usually revolved around sex.”
She just stared.
“I grew up with a bunch of boys. Do you really have to ask?”
“That’s actually kind of interesting.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s not.”
“Sure it is,” she countered. “Who knows? Maybe I might need this information sometime in my life. How do you say balls in England?”
I looked at her straight-faced and answered, “Balls.”
Her head tilted to the side as she playfully hit my shoulder. “You know that’s not what I meant! Come on! I want to know some slang! Teach me!”
“Nope,” I answered. “I promised you I’d go refill your drink before the fireworks, and I am a man who keeps his word.” I rose from my spot on our blanket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She looked up at me, her bottom lip protruding out, making her look ridiculous.
I rolled my eyes before heading towards the drinks station but stopped myself mid-step. Turning back around, I found her in the same position.
Same pitiful look.
“Bollocksis the conventional slang you’ll hear often. But there is also the lesser knowns—nadgers, acorns and goolies. If you’re referring to the whole package though, you might want to go withJohn Thomas.”
Millie’s high pitched laughter that followed behind me was infectious, and I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face as I went to retrieve our drinks. I had a feeling this wouldn’t be the end of Millie’s British slang education.
Not by a long shot.
Reaching into the ice chest for the pink bottle of wine Millie loved, I poured a decent amount in her wine glass before grabbing a beer for myself. Just as I was about to return to our spot on the lawn, I saw Mr. McIntyre walking toward the drink area, two glasses in hand.
Apparently fetching drinks for the women in the family was a lifelong obligation.
I had two choices—either stay or make like a tree and leave, thereby delaying my second and most important introduction with Millie’s father as the new boyfriend. Only a coward would duck his head and run, and I didn’t want Mr. McIntyre thinking his daughter was dating a spineless jerk.
“Mr. McIntyre,” I said, placing the drinks on the table beside me to offer my hand in greeting, “I know we haven’t been formally introduced…well, not since I—”
“I know who you are,” he said, a pleasant smile on his face. He gave a nod to my outstretched hand but kept on toward the table with the task of refilling his drinks. “You’ll find I’m not nearly as formal as most other yahoos.”
Yahoos? Is that even a word?
“That’s good to hear. I’m not big on it myself.”
He continued to pour his wine, and I smiled to myself, seeing Millie’s mother had an affinity for the same wine as her daughter.
“Really?” Mr. McIntyre said. “I always thought the English were sticklers for propriety.”
“Not when you were raised in the system.”
He set down his glass and eyed me. “Foster kid, huh?”
I simply nodded.
