Edward
We were back in the kitchen.
"Right," Connor said, filling the kettle like it was a sacred ritual. "Proper tea. For the flask. The Scottish way."
I watched him. "You've been Scottish for approximately two hours.."
"Two minutes," he corrected, holding up a finger. He must have already been drunk. "And I was Scottish before that. It was the English that corrupted me."
"The English?" I raised an eyebrow. "Last time I checked, you're from Liverpool."
"Exactly," he said, deadly serious. "Occupied territory."
I snorted and leaned against the green island. He was measuring tea leaves with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert.
"You're ridiculous," I said.
"And you're one third Irish," he shot back without looking up. "So you don't get to have an opinion on tea."
I froze. "Are you always going to bring that up?"
"Only until our children come out with red hair," he said, pouring boiling water into the pot. "Then I'll know who to blame."
