“I don’t think it’s recommended,” she says on a laugh.

“Yeah, probably not. Okay, well, let’s pick an alcohol base and work around that.”

Chad and his wife already head up to the bar, clearly ready to win as they lean over, hiding whatever the bartender is pouring in their tumbler. Seems premature—they didn’t want to think it over at all? Just heading right on up there?

“Look at those overachievers. Bet they’re doing something unimaginative like…Sex on the Beach,” I say.

“Or Bloody Nipples.”

I pause and turn toward Scottie. “What the fuck is Bloody Nipples?”

“Uh, is that what it’s called?”

“I sure as fuck hope not.”

She laughs and then says, “Wait, it’s a Slippery Nipple.”

“Oh, okay, yes. Jesus. Not Bloody Nipples, Scottie.”

“Yeah, that didn’t sound right. Bloody Nipples is definitely not something I would want to put in my mouth.”

“Slippery nipples though…” I nudge her shoulder.

“You know what, that’s something we should add to the bucket list.”

“Slippery nipples?” I ask.

“A naked massage, where my nipples get all slippery.”

My brows raise. “And who do you plan on checking that bucket list item off with?”

She smirks up at me. “Was hoping with my fake husband.”

“Damn right.”

“We have about five minutes left,” Sanders calls out.

“Shit, this has a time limit? He didn’t say that in the beginning, did he?” I say.

“I don’t think so. Okay, we need to focus. Umm, let’s go with tequila.”

“Why tequila?”

“Umm…I don’t know. This is where you need to lean on your improv.”

“Okay, how about…we got drunk off margaritas on our first date and ended up riding the subway all the way to Coney Island and back, chatting the whole time.”

“Aww, that’s kind of cute.”

“It is.”

“Okay, and then maybe…some prickly pear, because our relationship has been prickly,” she says.

“Ooo, good one.”

“Then we add some triple sec and lime juice. I think Mika always puts that in margaritas.”

“He does. And some sweet-and-sour mix because we are sweet and sour.”

“Love it.” We circle the items on our menu. “Should we add strawberries,” she asks, “like a few crushed on the bottom?”

“I’m not opposed to it.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Together we walk up to the bar, hand one of the bartenders our drink, and he gets to work while we crush up some strawberries and put them at the bottom of three glasses.

“We need a name,” I say.

“How about the Prickly Pair, but we spell it p-a-i-r?”

“Nice play on words, babe.”

“Thank you.” She kisses my cheek, and I smirk.

“Fuck, we’re cute.”

“I could not agree more.”