““So tell me about you. Who is Pippa, in the broad scheme of things?” He winks. I return the smile. “Well, I’m an only child, born and raised in Chicago--” “Ah, Chicago. That’s the accent.” “I told you before, I don’t have an accent.” “To your ears you don’t.” He laughs. “But it’s definitely there to the rest of us.” “Is that a bad thing?” “No,” he says. “It’s cute.” Oh, I might die. A boy used the word “cute.” And when describing something about me. I can’t look at him. “Well, I can’t really hear your accent,” I say. “That’s what happens when you move all the time. I can sound like I’m from wherever I want.” “Prove it. Let’s hear a British accent.” “I think technically it’s called an English accent, and no. I don’t work on demand.” I give Darren a little shove. “Come on, pansy. Just a wee little sampling,” I say, attempting the accent myself. He bites back a laugh. “That was…rubbish. And Scottish, if we’re being picky.” “Hey!” I say, shoving him harder like I’m twelve.””
