I tried not to laugh and I won, but only just. Even so, when I said, “Grant, I don’t care if his name is Dick McGee. I’m going out with him tomorrow night,” it was with a giggle.
“That was a barely stifled laugh. You don’t want to go out with Benji either,” Grant said.
“Stop pouting over there. I’ll get you a double scoop of ice cream,” I offered, wrapping my other arm around the one I leaned on. We came to a stop in front of a cute little ice cream shop and I pushed open the door, eyes searching the menu for my favorite: Bing Cherry.
He sighed, looking down at me, and then gave one nod. “Fine, but it will be in a waffle cone. These are my demands,” he said, pausing before continuing on, “and sweetheart?”
“Yeah?” I asked, looking away from the menu to see that Grant regarded me with one of his patented looks which was barely decent for being in public.
“Don’t forget what I said about love and war.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked, forgetting all about my desire for Bing Cherry and leaning away from him with a frown. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, but I gave you the chance to go out with me fair and square tomorrow. I just want it on the record.”
“Fine, it’s on the record,” I said, giving him a wary look. “But what the hell does that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
I pinched his side, making him yelp. “Grant…” I warned.
The ice cream counter person waved at us, and before I could force him to tell me more he wrapped an arm around my waist and I forgot how to think. If a hand in mine made me go stupid, an arm around my waist rendered me braindead, and suddenly I didn’t care much about finding out what Grant meant, or even if the ice cream server could spell Bing Cherry, so long as Grant kept his arm exactly where it was.