Aaron shrugged, scrubbing his face after setting down the second empty bottle. Somehow, he felt like her second question was a loaded one. If he lied, she'd be able to tell. Women had some kind of magic lie detector embedded in their brains, or something, he thought. But, if he told the truth, she might get offended. He would lose either way.
"You," he admitted after a long pause, and at that, he reached over to the table and took another bottle, this time of Jim Beam. He considered it for a moment. Back home, she was still a pre-teen. She was only eleven when he came from, for Christ's sake. Aaron knew her father really well, too. Pete taught him a lot of the things he knew about hunting; Pete had been his mother's hunting partner for as long as Aaron could remember. Messing with that guy was not an option. Aaron liked getting laid, but not enough to take on Pete goddamn Dunham if the guy ever showed up here. Doc Dunham would be hard enough to face here, forget about Pete.
The bottle hovered near Aaron's lips as he looked back at Grace, knitting his brow. She was hot, though. The Seal was a cruel, sadistic motherfucker, Aaron decided. "Grace you're still a kid where I came from, you know?" he asked, shooting back the Jim Beam, too, before giving her a lazy, stupid grin. "You grew up real nice though, Jailbait, I'll give you that."