He stood, hands out, prepared to catch. “Go for it.”
“Favorite color? Mine is purple.” She tossed him the pillow.
“Blue. Favorite flavor ice cream? Rocky Road.” He tossed her the pillow.
As the two continued their playful, seemingly made-up game of, toss-the-pillow-ten-questions, they discovered things about the other person: their preference for cats or dogs—both preferred dogs; their favorite movie genre, which to no surprise, Chloe’s was romance, while his was action and adventure; then onto their favorite food, Chloe naming her favorite—pizza with olives.
“My fave is tamales.”
The pillow fell to the floor as Chloe held her belly and chuckled. “Isthatwhy you named your bike, Tamale?”
“Yeah, and what’s so wrong with that?”
She bent over, lifted the pillow off the floor. “Oh, nothing really. But it’s a good thing your favorite food isn’t something like asparagus, pumpernickel bread, or crab cakes.”
Dylan’s retort was a mere head tilt accompanied by an over-dramatic eye-roll.
They carried on, learning even more.
“Do you believe in Santa Claus? I do.” She smiled as he caught the pillow.
“I believe in the concept. Hope. Faith. Who do you call on for advice? As for me, I usually call my mom and sometimes ask any member of the Early Brew Crew.”
She nearly missed, but still caught the pillow. “My mom, hands down. Unless it’s advice about money, then I call my dad. Ever want to get married? Have kids?”
“Yes and yes.” He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t answer.”
Chloe stared at the ceiling, bit on her lower lip. “I’ve dreamt of getting married and starting a family since I was nine or ten.”
A pause lingered in the air for a beat as they stood, across from each other, the bed in between, his brown eyes charismatically dancing with hers. Chloe was wondering what he was thinking and was about to ask when he said, “Okay, I believe we’re down to the last few questions. But we may have lost count.”
“Right. Let’s go with three more. We’d better make them good.”
He smirked. “How do you make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
The pillow once again collapsed to the floor as she set her hands on her hips. “Uh…with peanut butter and jelly.” Her tone hadduhinfused all over it.
He shook his head, chortled. “No,howdo you make it? Do you spread the peanut butter evenly across both slices of bread or…”
“Absolutely not. Peanut butter goes on one slice, jelly on the other.” She folded her arms in defense of that answer.
“So”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“you basically massacre the heck out of what could be a lip-smacking sandwich. It’s peanut butter on both pieces of bread, then a smooth layer of jelly. Otherwise the bread gets soggy. No one likes soggy bread.”
Hmm. Even Chloe had to admit, albeit to herself, Dylan had a valid point. There was nothing worse than soggy bread.
“My bread doesn't get soggy. In fact, the way I make it, the ingredients are evenly distributed so there’s no flavor imbalance.”
Flavor imbalance? Chloe wondered why she felt the need to go head-to-head about the right and wrong way to make a classic sandwich as if she were a defender and he a prosecutor on a throwback episode of Law and Order..
Dylan wiggled his brows. “Okay. Let’s have a showdown. You make it your way. I’ll make it my way, thus proving it’s better.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’ll only prove my way is better.”
They trotted downstairs and into the kitchen where Dylan placed a loaf of wheat bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, and two butter knives on the counter. “All right Miss Davenport, you make your version of soggy bread hell, and I’ll make PBandJ the correct way. Trust me, you’ll take one bite of mine, and arrive to the same conclusion.” “No, you’ll take a bite of mine, and admit you’re wrong—because it won’t be soggy. Unless, of course you’re the type of guy who refuses to admit he’s wrong, like Fonzie from Happy Days.”
He looked at her, expressionless, and Chloe had to hold back the bubble of giggles in her throat.
“I’ve never had to admit it, because I’m never wrong.”
