I beg your pardon. Merlin's beard Greer hated that phrase. It was a poor excuse for calling out the fact that they either couldn't hear or wanted you to repeat what you said in case you didn't mean it. Greer didn't have patience for either; she never said anything she didn't mean. "You heard me, if yeh want to gossip like little old biddies go to the tea room with yer knitting." Her accent came out in full force with half a glass of gin and her anger leeching out.

The blonde she was looking at was far too prim for this sort of thing, and what was worse, most of the gossip was coming from the rich bloke, like he was some old society wife with nothing better to do with his time. Greer had to work her ass off to be taken seriously in a manual labor job and he got to sit there without a care in the world and comment on other people's misfortune. It grated her in a way she hadn't experienced in quite a while.

"Or Merlin forbid, use yeh time for something practical." The sneer was natural, not practiced at all.