“That what you do?” I’m not agreeing and not disagreeing, doing my best to play it safe. Sebastian looks me up and down, and if there were any chance I still had my man card, it’s gone in his eyes now. I might as well have pulled it out and handed it over on a fringe-rimmed, rhinestone-bedazzled velvet pillow. Clearing my throat, I summarize, “No treats. Got it.”

Sebastian’s lips twitch but I can see the pity smile.

“What do you recommend instead . . . maybe for Chunky . . . and me? Nutrition-wise, I mean. Or exercises?”

I’m not flirting, nor am I admitting that Sebastian is more manly than I am, despite the blond, flowing locks, big biceps, flat abs, and testosterone-fueled scruff on his face that makes him look like a modern-day Fabio. Nope, this is all part of my plan to organically bring up the green smoothie Richard Horne was imbibing each day.

“Lean protein and veggies. Those steamer bags of broccoli and carrots are good. Canned chicken and tuna too.”

“For me or Chunky? He’d eat anything I put in front of him, but I’d rather have a steak. Or hide the veggies in a smoothie I choke down.” I pull a face, playing up my veggie-hating. “Ya feel me?” I aim for his bro-speak tone.

“Totally.” He holds up a fist, and I bump it, feeling victorious. “I meant for the big dude. You can stick with the steak for sure. As for the vegetables, there’s a smoothie I recommend. Green Extreme Plus—you heard of it?”

“No. It tastes good?”

“Well, no. But it’s good for you.” He shrugs. “And you can put vitamins and shit in it, hold your nose, and chug it like a beer.” He upends an imaginary cold one.

“Sounds disgusting. Where do I get it?” I say with a laugh he echoes. “And what extra shit do I put in it?” I eye him up and down, much the way he did me, but I feign being impressed and add, “Can I put pure lead in it to get pumped?”

That’s as close to the truth as I can tiptoe toward. I can’t exactly ask for heavy metal recommendations.

Sebastian bows up a bit, and I’m afraid he’s gotten suspicious of my questions. There’s a short moment where I’m sure my cover is blown, and I prep for an attack of some sort.

Fuck, let it be verbal and not physical! If this guy punches me, I’m going down like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree under Paul Bunyan’s axe. I’m not that puny, but he’s considerably . . . formidable. Thankfully, it seems to be more of a showoff moment than a beatdown one. “All natural, dude. No ’roids needed.”

Well, shit. That didn’t work.

I carefully try again.