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“Don’t fucking call me that,” she snaps, and might be his imagination, but Amos is pretty good at seeing past paint, and he’s almost sure that’s a natural blush staining Chrissy’s cheeks.
“Can’t help it,” he says, stretching out his legs and giving her his best shit-eating grin, the one Peaches told him is cute even if he doesn’t understand why at all, “guess it’s just how I think of you.”
The sideways look she gives him at that is easy enough to read, so he adds, “Well, to be honest, that ain’t the only way I think of you,” and waits to see what she’ll do; no matter what it is, he’s betting he’ll be satisfied, one way or another.