“Link Linkovich.”
“Also no.” I ignore him like he’s my teenage child, pestering me for more game time or an unhealthy snack after I’ve said no a dozen times. “Your suggestions are god-awful, no offense to you or God.”
“You’re no help at all.” He pauses. “Dink Dittmeyer.”
That one makes me laugh, and I nod approvingly. “Yes. That’s the one. Come along, Dink.”
Duke laughs too. “Never mind—that makes it sound like I have a small dick.”
“No one is thinking about your dick.” I let him know as I survey the baskets of French bread. “Literally no one.” I wait a heartbeat. “Dink.”
“On second thought, let’s go back to callin’ me Steele Dragon.”
“Not happening.”
I have his list in my hand, and as I suspected, he’s tossed in twice as many things than are on it. The total tallying up in my head, I pray he has his wallet along because I’ll never be able to afford all this if he doesn’t.
“Hey, Dink, would you be a doll and grab me that bottle of balsamic from the top row?”
What he says is: “If you’re gonna insist on calling me that, I’m gonna insist on coming up with a name for you.”
What I hear is:If yor gonna insist on cawlin’ me that, I’m gonna insist on commin’ up with a name for yew.
The Southern is too much for my vagina and ovaries, especially with the cologne he’s wearing and the five o’clock shadow.
“I had a nickname once. My girlfriends in college called me Kettner.”
“That sounds like a last name.”
“That’s because it is my last name.”
“That’s not a nickname, then. You were robbed.”
“Posey Kettner.” He puts the names together, testing them out. “Is that your real name?”
He’s staring at me blankly, hand paused over a hunk of Swiss cheese.
I roll my eyes at him again, for the third time today—not that I’m counting.
“Yes, that’s my real name.”
“Actually?”
“Why does it matter?”
Duke doesn’t so much as blink. At least, I don’t think he’s blinking. It’s hard to say behind his dark lenses.
“Nope.” He clicks his tongue. “But I need to know your actual name.”
I almost laugh. He’s so grumpy and rude.
“My real name is Josephine, but I go by Posey.” On we go toward the almond milk.
He grabs three cartons.
“Josephine, can you grab me three cartons of eggs, please?”
“You can call me Posey like everyone else does, or Pose. Whichever works.”