The pompous, superior Stick? Ugh.
If there was one thing that told her the Man in the Iron Mask couldn’t be Sir Stick Up His Ass, it was that kiss.
There’s no way that ironing board can kiss like that.
Ceci jumped when Aunt Delilah slapped her palms on the table, hard enough for the silverware on the plates to rattle.
“That’s how we’ll catch him,” she said. “With the kiss.”
Ceci’s eyes blew open. “What?”
“You’ll just have to kiss Sir Clarke.”
“Kiss Sir Stick Up His Ass?”
“Then you’ll know. Surely you’ll be able to tell. Have I taught you nothing useful in life?”
“Okay,” Pixel said, “let’s just suppose we go along with this plan.”
“What?” Ceci cried. “Are you insane?”
“Just humor me a moment,” Pixel muttered under her breath. She turned to Aunt Delilah. “When exactly is she supposed to kiss the knight? How? Exactly.”
Aunt Delilah shrugged. “That’s for her to figure out. She’ll have to create an opportunity. She can’t just wait for one to drop in her lap. If I’d waited, I wouldn’t have the impressive kissing record I have to this very day.”
Ceci eyed Pixel. “Don’t you dare ask,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
“Come on,” Pixel said in a low tone. “Don’t you want to know?”
“Even once she tells you, you won’t know. Whatever number she gives, it won’t be the truth.”
“It’ll still be entertaining.”
Ceci sighed. “Okay, Aunt Delilah, what’s your kissing record?”
“Fifty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty.” She paused. “So far.”
Pixel leaned forward. “Fifty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty? I don’t even know fifty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty men.”
“My dear, you don’t have to know them to kiss them.” Aunt Delilah peered at her watch. “We’ll see if we can make it fifty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty-one when that waiter returns.”
“You’ve kept count?” Pixel asked.
“Of course. Haven’t you?”
“Well, no. But then, I don’t have that impressive of a record.”
Ceci shook her head at Pixel. “Full disclosure, Aunt Delilah. You’re not including me, or cats or dogs or anything that could count as a non-romantic kiss?”
“Uh-uh. All full-grown men. On the lips. With tongue. Legal too. Let me just make that clear. All were over eighteen.” She paused. “Oh, wait a minute. There were those years when I was under eighteen. Oh goodness, in that case, the number is much higher. And then of course, there were some women. Oh dear, that number I gave you is well below the actual count.”
“Well, there is all that euphoria you get from the oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin when kissing,” said Pixel. “I suppose it’s safer than cliff diving, bull running, or shark-cage diving.”
“That’s right,” Aunt Delilah said in a tone suggesting she’d actually used such reasoning while earning kissing stats that would beat Casanova, John Mayer, and Bluebeard. Combined.
“Besides,” her aunt went on, “given the stories written about you, dear, most people probably think your stats are equivalent to mine. At least mine aren’t fiction and I actually got to enjoy all that ’tocin, dope, and ’tonin that Piper mentioned.”
“Some of mine weren’t fiction.”
