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“Because you cooked, I was going to do the dishes, anyway.”
The male is too nice for his own good.
“And if you’re right? What will be your reward?” I wait for his response.
“I want a kiss, Cally.”
The room goes silent and if I’m not mistaken, the laws of physics transform because, for a few long moments, time stops.
“Shit! Shit, Cally. I… shouldn’t…” His eyes look half-wild as he scans the room as though he’s looking to escape.
Laughing, I shrug it off. “I’m the first female you’ve ever been within a mile of; you said so yourself. You’re in rut. Of course, you’d want a… kiss.” I retrieve my camera and point it at him to both change the subject and use it as a shield. “So if you win—which you won’t—what do you want?”
I turn on the camera, waiting for some mundane answer, and am only half listening because I’m going to win. That’s what everyone does. Before the book launched, I shared my vision with dozens of people. Their response was always the same. Nervous laughter, then shock and disapproval.
Looking through the screen at him, I watch as his face slowly morphs from embarrassment to what my mom would call ‘serious as a heart attack’ as he considers his answer to my question about what he wants if he wins the bet.
He looks straight into the camera and says, “It has nothing to do with you being the only woman I’ve ever met, and although I couldn’t swear on a stack of Bibles, I don’t think it has anything to do with my biological imperative. I already said what I want. If I win, Calliope Quinn, I would like a kiss.”
Be still my heart. My chest flutters and then the fluttering turns warmer and moves lower, filling me with liquid desire. He’s still looking at me. I don’t think he’s even blinked.
I guess this proves one thing I’ve often wondered about. People are either born with the flirtation gene or they’re not. Me? I was not. I’m seldom even aware if someone is flirting with me, although I’m one hundred percent certain I’m on the receiving end of it now. Sylas? He’s a natural-born sex god.
Choosing to say absolutely nothing in response to his outlandish proposal, I quickly forge ahead with my disclosure. This, I hope, will catch him off guard and I’ll be even more assured of winning the bet so the kiss will be a non-issue.
“Roadkill Chronicles.” There is no trace of humor in my voice.
I pause, letting it sink in. This is the point where most people give me a nervous chuckle.
Nothing. No response.
Okay. This has happened once or twice before. If there’s no anxious tittering, it usually means we move straight into the shocked and disappointed portion of the adventure.
“It’s sensational, I know. The sensationalism was to get eyes on the book to make more money.” I’m mostly babbling, waiting for the rest of his response to the name of my book.
“Brilliant!” Not only did those two syllables escape his mouth without seeming disingenuous, his eyes are sparkling with excitement. “You thought that up yourself? It’s perfect.”
I don’t actually hear angels singing and the heavens really don’t open up, but the moment seems thunderous all the same. I used to joke with my friend, Carlotta, that meeting someone who accepted my book's name and nature without question meant I’d found my soulmate. When I look back at this recording, it will document for all posterity that my hands are actually shaking as I observe his reaction.
“Calliope Quinn, you are a fucking… whoops, sorry, but you are a fucking genius.”
I wish I had my phone. I’d call Carlotta and simply say, “He gets me. He really gets me.” It would need no further explanation. She’d know exactly what I was talking about.
“Tell me.” He leans closer, reaches over, and eases my camera to the countertop. “I must know the subtitle.”
“No.” I click the camera off, not wanting to waste the battery. I got what I needed. Damn him, but he won the bet—no nervous titters, no shocked disgust. “Tell me your ideas first.”
“Oh. This is going to be the best party game.” He slides off his stool and starts pacing, deep in thought, his antlers bobbing with each clip-clop of his step.
Tater, the traitor, follows obediently as though Sylas is his new master and I’m chopped liver. No. He’d love if I were chopped liver. He’s acting as though I’m chopped cauliflower.
“A Tribute to Fallen State Fauna?” he asks, hand thoughtfully on his chin.
Before I can answer, he shakes his shaggy head. “No. It’s accurate, but too mundane.” After a pause, “Fallen Mascots of America?”
“Not bad, actually. I never thought of that one.”
“Tales From the Asphalt?”
