“It’s tattooed on your forehead.” A grin appeared on my face while I took a bite of the food.

She grunted. “Asshole should be on yours.”

“Tell me about yourself,” I said, meeting her eye contact again, gesturing for her to go on with more information. I wanted to know more about my new toy.

“Nuh uh. You first. You said it yourself. Question for a question.” She pointed her fork at me like she wanted to stab me.

“I grew up with my grandfather.” How many questions did she even have?

We sat in my favorite diner going back and forth, spilling tidbits of information about ourselves in this cat and mouse game. She thought she was the cat, but really, she was the mouse.

“I grew up with my mom until she died. Then I lived with my shitty aunt until I was eighteen.”

Curious. “How did she die?”

She looked at me with warning. “You first on the info spill.”

Bringing up my childhood trauma, I said, “My mom dumped me on my grandfather as a baby, and then she killed herself.”

Her expression was a mix of surprise and empathy. “Oh, I didn’t realize... My mother passed from cancer. I’m sorry to hear about your mom.”

“Yours too,” I said, keeping my cool by taking a sip of coffee. It wasn’t every day that I told the world that I was a bastard whose mother killed herself. Never meeting her was bad enough, but The Dictator never spoke a word about her to me. It was just something that never got talked about. Martha was the one who spilled the beans on my mother’s suicide when I was a pre-teen.

Martha had been with my family a long time, and she was like my mother. So I considered my biological mother a moot point since I couldn’t ask her any questions anyway. The table grew silent as Fallon devoured most of her meal and I didn’t press any further. Couldn’t scare her away on the first date after all.

Trying to lighten the mood, I blocked her from taking the last sausage link with my fork. I picked it up and took a bite out of it.

Her mouth fell open in disbelief that I would take the last one. She tried to play it off by going for the grapes, but I offered the other half from my fork.

She went to take it off with her hand, but I stopped her. “Nope, give me that mouth.”

“I am not letting you put a sausage in my mouth, you heathen,” she seethed.

I chuckled. “It’s that or nothing, Blondie.” My lips curled into a smile, trying to hold the fork back out to her.

“Then I don’t want it,” she said, waving over at Martha. “Miss Martha, can I get some pie, pretty please?”

She hollered back over the counter, “Which one, sweet pea?”