Her fiancé strolled up to her chair and wove dexterous fingers into her blonde tresses. “Maybe,” he said pleasantly. “But my dearest,” he tightened his grip and angled her face up. “There’s still that bottle of god-awful liquid—” Leaning down, he lightly brushed his lips over hers. “—in the cupboard, over the fridge.” His breath smelled of mint.
Blinking cerulean eyes, she frowned delicately. “I don’t see what you have against Canola oil, Eddie.” She hedged, arching up from the chair and wrapped pale arms around his waist.
He chuckled, low and sure. “The whiskey, not the cooking oil, Monroe.”