Something sank into his stomach, some warm flush of the attention and the familiar drawl of Adam Parrish's stupid Piedmont accent that reminded Kavinsky of the nearest thing he'd called to home for the past four and a half years. Some warm flush from Adam Parrish's eyes and attention on him, that he'd never wanted or needed before but it was here now--

His dog, Copper, nudged at Kavinsky's hand, jostling the grocery bag a little, and the warm flush--more in his lower belly than his face--turned into a creeping sort of guilt. He cleared his throat, ruffling a hand through his hair.

"Uh, thanks," he mumbled, thinking fast. Parrish didn't know him, didn't know who he was, didn't know--Christ. Kavinsky couldn't let that lead on, as priceless as this blackmail might be. He gave Parrish a skeptical, deadpan look, all lifted eyebrows and sharp lines. "...I'm Bulgarian mobster trash, Parrish."