About studies where organ donors have passed along their culinary tastes to transplant recipients. Cases where someone previously detested tomatoes, but craves them after getting bone marrow from someone else who likes them.”
“That’s fascinating.” Bradley shakes his head. “Not nearly as fascinating as everything that’s gone into creating special Iz-friendly corndogs. How can I help?”
I point to the bag of kebab skewers I’ve set out on the counter. “You can thread those through the hot dogs. Don’t worry, they’re all-natural, organic beef.” I glance over to where Kevin lies snoozing on the pet bed. “No pork products whatsoever. Not even the casings.”
“Impressive.” Bradley picks up the bag of skewers and shakes a few onto the counter. “How many are we making?”
“I can eat two or three,” I tell him. “I have healthy coleslaw in the fridge to go with them, plus all the usual condiments.”
Bradley’s frowning down at the hot dogs, an odd look on his face. He’s holding a skewer in one hand and looking just a touch uncomfortable.
I take a step closer. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sorry.” He shakes his head. “Just a weird moment of déjà vu.”
“What do you mean?”
He grimaces. “I probably shouldn’t say it.”
“You must.” Not like I have any room to talk when it comes to keeping secrets, but surely this one doesn’t have the same gravity. “Is something wrong?”
“Uh, well, there’s this procedure called cystoscopy,” he says slowly, still gripping one of the skewers. “It’s an endoscopic procedure where a physician inserts a tube into the urethra through the tip of the penis.”
“Oh,” I say, recognition dawning. “Oh, my.”
“Yeah, that’s why I didn’t want to say anything.” He flashes a self-deprecating smile. “You can’t get wigged out too easily when you’re a doctor, but that’s the one procedure that gives me the willies.” He winces. “No pun intended.”
I laugh, delighted to get the joke. Besides educating me about slang terms for birth control, Lily took it upon herself to regale me over lunch with copious slang for male genitalia. I was especially delighted by the term “willie,” along with “dingholer” and “flesh twinkie” and “meat stick” and—
“That’s a great smile.” Bradley grins, hot dog still gripped in his hand. “Does that mean I didn’t totally ruin this meal for you?”
“What? Oh, no—of course not.”
My mother would be appalled by my mental catalogue of penis euphemisms. The very notion of calling human genitalia by anything other than clinical terms would be gauche, in her eyes. As a child, I understood this was part of being sophisticated. That people like us—refined, cultured people—didn’t use irreverent language for body parts or sex acts.
As Bradley gets busy skewering hot dogs, I struggle not to let my brain dip down dark corridors. Not to dwell on rules I grew up with, the expectations for me as a young lady of royal birth. Not to think about any of it.
My brain obliges gleefully by supplying another round of penis terms.
Pecker.
Snot sausage.
Wanker spanker.
Stop it!
I pick up the recipe card and stare at the blur of words. Something about dry ingredients and wet ingredients and why the hell was my mother so hung up on illicit sex terminology, anyway?
Her rules against using that language ran counter to her actions. That’s evidenced by my existence, by the fact that her affair with Cort Bracelyn led to my conception and the Duke raising a daughter who wasn’t his. I’ve spent a lifetime striving to be a good member of the royal family, a perfect lady to make them proud.
Goo bazooka.
Yogurt gun.
Dicksicle.
Baloney pony.
Oh, dear.
Now that it’s been triggered, I can’t switch off the branch of my brain that catalogued all the penis words. Thank God Bradley Parker is a doctor and not a mind reader or I’d be in trouble.
I fight to paste on my serious expression, to concentrate on sifting and stirring and cracking an egg so hard the yolk runs down my wrist.
“Everything okay?” Bradley’s voice is a low rumble, but I can’t look at him. Can’t stop the chipper litany of filthy words running through my brain.
Crotch cobra.
Bacon rod.
Wrinklebeast.
“Fine!” I practically shout. “Everything’s great. I almost have the batter ready.”
Dear Lord, make it stop. I glance at Bradley, then wish I hadn’t. He’s gripping a hot dog in one hand, concentrating with medical precision on threading the skewer through the end of the plump pink cylinder.
I drop my gaze quickly, studying the polished edge of the granite counter. Instantly, I recognize my mistake. The fly of his jeans rests precisely at that