I open my mouth but Zeb grabs my knee under the table and squeezes. Hard.
“Ouch,” I mutter.
“Behave,” he says tightly.
“I can’t promise anything if you happen to move that hand a couple of inches up.”
“A couple of inches? You’ve got a comfortable self-image.”
I shrug. “I work with what I’ve got.”
A waiter inserts himself between us to position tiny plates with a piece of meat on it and an inch of sauce curled round it. Zeb’s hand falls away. I look down at the plate gloomily. “Is this it?” I say sadly and the waiter snorts before resuming his stately procession down the table.
Zeb looks at me and his mouth quirks. “I’d say that was a mouthful,” he mutters. “For someone who hasn’t got a mouth the size of yours.”
“Zeb, I am a growing boy. I’m hoping they serve more food than this over the week or you’ll have to take me to hospital for a drip.”
“You’re exceedingly dramatic,” he intones. “I’m guessing it’s because you’re the youngest of eight children. You must have had to work very hard for your voice to be heard.”
“Not really,” I mutter, downing my starter in one sad bite. “It was never a problem.”
I nudge him. “I like a man who’s lingual.”
He stares at me. “I have never met anyone who manages to turn such an innocent sentence so dirty.”
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