Okay, so it’s not a favorite phrase. It’s a favorite written section. But I’ll warn you. Sometimes my muse is a real dork.
Michael and Penelope hardly had a minute alone with the boys at home, but that was fine with them; they would have time to be alone another day. At one point, they found themselves alone in the kitchen while she made bread and prepared vegetables to go with dinner and he watched, beer in hand. Knowing he may not get another chance before he had to leave, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.
And just as their lips touched for a second time, Trevor came around the corner, laughing. “Get a room,” he teased.
Penelope covered her profusely blushing face with her apron and turned away, giggling.
“Are the two of you ever going to get married?” He helped himself to a beer. His mother had allowed him to start drinking beer–only beer and only at home–on his eighteenth birthday.
Michael replied, an arm around Penelope, who stood with her back to them, “It’s not for the lack of trying. Your beautiful mother here just won’t supply me with the proper answer.”
Trevor emitted several ‘tsks’ as he flipped the beer cap into the trash and walked away.
After her son was safely gone, Penelope looked up at Michael and waggled a finger at him. “Don’t you start, either,” she said, still fighting giggles.
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