“I don’t know. That’s tomorrow. Who knows what I’ll wish for tomorrow?”

“Probably for your hangover to go away.”

“Touché. But really, who knows? Tomorrow’s wishes are for tomorrow.” She replayed that statement in her mind. “Wow, that was kind of stealthily deep. Wishing in the moment. Each moment is a wish?” Man, they should give her an Etsy store. She could produce inspirational T-shirts and mugs.

“So what do you wish for at this moment, then?”

“At this moment I wish for…” She tilted the phone to try to figure out what was casting that weird chunk of light on his beard. Something squeezed between her legs. “…you and your beard to go down on me.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. Holy crap, what had she just said? Where had that come from?

Well, she knew where it had come from: a little category called True Things. But how had it gotten out of her mouth?

Six glasses of wine, plus her renegade mouth that never obeyed her brain when it came to Sawyer, was how. She dipped her fingertips into the glass of water she’d brought into the den with her and flicked water at her face. Look sharp, Abbott. Time to backpedal the hell out of what you just said.

She was too slow, though. He spoke first. “Why did we never do that when we had the chance?”

Hell, if she could say outrageous things, he could, too. And his question was a lot less outrageous than her bombshell wish. She probably wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning anyway.

He, however, was never going to forget it. Suddenly uncomfortable, he unbuckled his seat belt.

“Well…” she drawled. Oh sweet God, was she going to say something innuendo laden? Not that what she had said before was innuendo. Nope, it had been direct as hell.

I wish for you and your beard to go down on me.

He shifted in his seat and reminded himself that she was drunk. Not in her right mind.

“You never had a beard,” she said. “I mean, no offense, but I don’t know if the hormones had kicked in enough to really make a beard happen for you yet.”

He chuckled. So much for more suggestiveness. But he did want to know the answer to his question. “No. I mean, why did I never go down on you? You went down on me. Why didn’t I reciprocate?”

“The patriarchy?” she suggested.

He barked a laugh. He might not have said it like that, but she wasn’t wrong. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Well, in your defense, I don’t know how many teenage boys are, you know, getting right in there.”