I glance around the room. I love what Christine has done with the place.
Well, mostly, she’s lit a fancy vanilla-scented candle to cover up the smell of my gym clothes (I really should wash that stuff more often). She’s also draped a couple colorful scarves over the window and put some flowers in an empty pickle jar on my kitchenette table. Looks nice.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I added a few girly-girl touches.”
“No problem. Just need to grab some clothes and my shaving stuff.”
“Sure.” She moves left. I go right. The room is so tiny we have to dance around each other to maneuver.
“I can’t thank you enough, Danny.”
“No worries.”
I sidle past her. Open some drawers. Try to ignore the bras and Victoria Secret type items lying dangerously close to my boxer shorts.
Christine watches me pack. Smiles.
“I can see why Katie was so crazy about you.”
Lump in throat time again. “She was?”
“Totally. ‘Danny, Danny, Danny.’ It’s all she ever talked about.”
“Really?”
“Cross my heart.” When she says that, she makes the accompanying gesture. Across her chest. What I’m saying is Christine is, basically, pointing at her boobs. Not that she had to. I was already there.
“So, you hungry?” I ask.
“Starving.”
“You want to go grab a bite?”
She hesitates. “I should probably eat in for a while. I’m a gal on a budget, Danny. My savings can’t last forever and I’ve lost two jobs this month …”
“My treat.”
“No. You’ve done enough.”
“Come on. Nothing fancy. The Dinky Dinghy.”
“The shrimp place?”