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Try as I might to be realistic, my mind keeps throwing me pictures of a future together. It’s insanity. Between the threat of exposure, the likelihood of her incarceration, and the utter improbability that someone as amazing as Calliope Quinn would want to hitch her quirky, nomadic wagon to a male who will probably never be allowed to leave this ten-square-mile plot of land, it’s more of a longshot than putting a man on the moon.
But we managed that, didn’t we? We put a man on the moon. Maybe there is a future for Cally and me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cally
My hair is still damp from my quick shower. His is taking longer than mine and is accompanied by enthusiastic bugling echoing from the small bathroom.
When he finishes in the bathroom, I grab a can of diced tomatoes from the shelf, holding it up triumphantly as he saunters toward me, long, dark hair still dripping wet.
“Alright, Sylas, today’s lesson is all about canned tomatoes and how they can save dinner when creativity fails you in the kitchen.”
Sylas glances at the can, amusement and curiosity playing across his handsome features. “I’m all ears, Cally. Teach me your culinary secrets.”
I flash him a mischievous grin and return to the small kitchen counter. “First things first. We need to chop this onion.” I reach for an onion that Sylas brought with him. He’s so clueless in the kitchen, I’m not sure why it was in his backpack, but I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth.
As I start chopping, the pungent aroma fills the air. Sylas leans in closer, inhaling deeply. “Mmm, that smells amazing. I can practically taste it already.”
I don’t think he’s actually enthusiastic about the smell of onions. His nose hovers at my neck. I have no doubt he’s waxing poetic about tasting me.
“Why don’t you finish chopping this?”
I scoot the plastic chopping board toward him, assuming since he said he knew nothing about cooking that we’ll have to start from scratch. Instead, he asks, “You want them the same size as yours?”
The moment I nod, he goes to work at lightning speed. I’ve never seen anything like it, even on the Food Network.
“You give the words ‘knife skills’ new meaning,” I say, then quickly regret it. Of course he has good knife skills. Supersoldiers don’t need to know how to cook, but they need to be able to use knives.
“Ta-da!” He pushes the chopping board back toward me with the knife lying across it and an entire onion chopped with every piece perfectly uniform.
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips, pushing away the heaviness that had struck me mere moments ago. “Well, look at you, Mr. Culinary Wizard. Color me impressed!”
Sylas chuckles, a low rumble that adds a happy soundtrack to our cooking adventure. “I may not know all the recipes, but I can certainly handle a knife. Guess that comes with the splicer territory.”
I playfully roll my eyes and point to the mushrooms nested in a kitchen towel. “I washed these when you were… yodeling in the bathroom.”
He doesn’t even have the good grace to look embarrassed, just shrugs and says, “A splicer’s got to do what a splicer’s got to do.” He bends his knees low enough to bump his hip with mine and winks at me.
“Get slicing, buster. Just remember, it’s not all about knife skills. Cooking is also about creativity and passion. And I have a feeling you’ve got plenty of that simmering inside you.”
He raises an eyebrow. At first, his gaze locks with mine, then it makes a slow, salacious slide down my body. “Passion, huh? You think so?”
My heart flutters at his innuendo.
I chuckle, the sound light and airy as I swirl a generous amount of oil into the pan. “The oil has to be hot before you add anything. We’ll saute, which is chef-speak for moving them around the pan, until the onions get translucent. Then we’ll add those hopefully non-lethal mushrooms.”
At my direction, Sylas makes short work slicing the mushrooms, then scrapes them into the mixture. I sprinkle in salt and pepper, then gesture to the shelf. “Grab the can opener and let’s get those diced tomatoes partying with their new friends.”
Sylas chuckles and picks up the can opener, examining it with a blend of fascination and uncertainty. “Uh, which way does it go?”
I grin, strangely charmed. “Clearly, your education lacked certain fundamentals. Never fear, Calliope Quinn is here. Maybe my next book should be a cookbook.” I mime proper can-opening technique. “Turn clockwise after you ease into it slowly… wouldn’t want you wearing your dinner.”
Looking at him, shirtless and still slightly damp, makes me wonder what would be so terrible about licking tomato splatter off those washboard abs.
On the third try, Sylas penetrates the metal lid and then flashes me a triumphant grin.
It strikes me how much he missed out on during most of his life. Of course, there are the obvious things: like a proper education about something other than what caliber rifles are the best for sniping; or what it’s like to have a family, people who love you. But perhaps even more poignant are the little things like skipping rocks or opening a freaking can of food.
