He takes it well, but she's clearly not allowed to partake of the decadent buffet stretched across his biceps... Spoil sport. She shrugs a little at his wry grin, as if to say 'your loss'... even if it's not.

"Well, I can promise that you don't smell like a tool, so you're good there," she informs him, trying to keep things somewhat light. She's a little more curious about that second part, though. So, just as casually, she adds another question: "What sort of things do they represent?"