Muriel arched a brow at the 'take her home' comment, but didn't dignify it with an answer. She did enjoy being possessive about him, but not when he was baiting her for the reaction. Instead, she curled her fingers around his when he closed his hand over hers, and smiled when he got possessive, then laughed at the explosive diarrhoea comment.
"I should hope not. But I can deal with people I'm sick of. A little of Merlin's Magic Liqueur in their after-dinner port, and they suddenly think they're drunker than they are and want to go home. Works a treat."
I hope potatoes is still okay.
His hand was very warm in hers, and the whiskey was toying quite pleasantly with her senses. Almost to the point where she might feel... might want... but they did that a lot lately, didn't they? It was almost a habit. And forming habits was never exciting, was it?
"Of course it is. I love it that you're comfortable here."
And she did. She would never want him to not feel comfortable with her, to feel like anything was expected of him. But she couldn't quite help a flicker of... was it disappointment? Selfishness? Self-consciousness? Fear?
Foolish old woman. Ridiculous. She glanced down at their hands, smiled, hoped that whatever this was wasn't showing on her face.