Page 33 of Down and Dirty

“I am not dressed for a feast.”

“You’re dressed fine for this feast. Look at me.”

She did. “You look ridiculous.”

“What? You don’t like my shirt?” He wore khaki cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops. He thought he looked pretty damn good.

Some of the other women agreed, even those peering into the room from the hallway. One of them said, “Be still, my heart.”

Britta rolled her eyes. Then she let out a whooshy exhale of surrender and rose to her feet. “I give my free consent. You may take me to the feast this one time, but you must promise not to touch me.”

Are you kidding me? “Sure, baby, sure.”

“Let me help you put some makeup on, hon,” her swim partner, Terri, offered.

“She’s fine the way she is,” Zach said.

He took Britta’s hand and led her from the room, her three roommates gawking after them. Avoiding the front stairs, they went down the back way and around the building to the front. When they got to the car, he noticed Cage and JAM laughing wildly at something his son had said. There was a female MP leaning against the car, laughing, too.

“Hey, Georgine,” he called out.

Georgine shook her head at him, as if he was pushing the bounds of what she could overlook.

He winked his thank-you.

Britta snorted. “Yet another of your women?”

Opening the passenger door, he indicated that Britta should get in.

She balked. “What is this?”

“A Firebird.”

She dug in her heels even more. “You expect me to put myself inside a fiery bird and fly away? You really are barmy.”

“We won’t be flying. In the sky anyway.” He grinned.

“And do not try to seduce me with your charm, either. I am uncharmable today.”

He grinned some more and put a hand on her upper arm to guide her in.

“Unhand me, troll.” She slapped his arm.

“We don’t have time for this.” He picked her up, placed her on the seat, and buckled her in, all before she had a chance to whack him a good one.

Resigned, Britta turned and greeted JAM and Cage, then said, “And who is this princeling sitting on his very own throne?”

Zach buckled himself in and turned as well. Actually, Sammy did look like some kind of self-important royalty on a throne staring down at all his underlings.

Cage quickly put a hand over Sammy’s mouth before he could tell Britta what he thought of his “throne.”

“That’s my son, Sammy,” Zach told Britta.

Sammy, whose mouth was now free, corrected him, “Samir Abdul Hassim Arsallah.”

“You forgot the Floyd in there, big boy.” To Britta, Zach explained, “His last name is Floyd, same as mine.”

“He looks just like you,” Britta observed.