Page 11 of Elusion

Benji’s advice from earlier might apply. Instead of fighting the chase, perhaps I lean in. Like steering into a skid to regain control. The guys think I need a fresh challenge or new experience or something to commit to. What if I dedicate some time to decipher the enigma of her and knock out all three? Trying to sleep with a girl sounds far more practical than their solution of a pet. And a hell of a lot more fun.

By the end of the call, I’ve decided on a never-before-taken course of action. I close my eyes and point at her calendar. Shit, my birthday. I pick again but land on the same date. Very well. I have until a week from Friday to sleep with her. Then, win or lose, I’ll walk away from Callie Henders.

And everyone thinks the apocalypse needs to occur for me to make a plan. All it really takes is two hypothermal events and a girl throwing down the gauntlet. Of course, this is about as well thought out as everything else in my life. Not at all.

I swipe through her contacts and grab a pen from the desk to write Felicia’s number on my palm. She might prove to be an advantage in my new venture. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I also flip through her calendar for the reason behind her countdown. A giant red circle surrounds July 23 with the number nineteen in the middle. Birthday.

When I hear footsteps returning, I lie down on the bed to look inconspicuous. Not my brightest idea, but better than her catching me going through her shit. As Callie slips in, unfortunately wearing shorts, a text message from a Connor vibrates her phone.

California lover?

“Cab will be here in ten,” I say, holding out her phone. “Someone texted.”

She laughs at the screen.

“Boyfriend?”

She reaches between the bed and nightstand for her phone charger, brushing my arm on the way. “Little brother.”

The answer doesn’t clarify whether she has a boyfriend. If I plan on spending the next week-plus trying to screw her, I should double-check a few things.

I sit up on the edge of her bed. “Do you know anyone between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two on the West Coast?”

Her head tilts to the side. “That’s an oddly specific question, but no, I can’t think of anyone.”

Two theories down. One to go.

“What does your father do?”

She rolls her eyes. “Factory worker.”

Mental note of the reaction.

“Are you Italian?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Any ties to the Mafia?”

Smooth, Waters.

“No?” she asks rather than tells.

“Would you honestly tell me if you had ties to the Mafia? Is that, like, a rule or something?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” I lick my lips, questioning the legitimacy of her Mafia answers but decide to focus on a more important point. “I’m incredibly sorry for my comment earlier. I meant it as a joke, but after that, I might refrain from making any jokes ever again.”

She gives her polite expression. “I accept your apology. And I’m sorry about my retaliation. It was childish.”

But hot.

“Great. We’re both sorry and both forgiven.” I stand up, ready to move on to the main event. “Now, back to winning you over.”

She crosses the room to a desk and sorts a stack of textbooks into new piles. “Don’t waste your time.”

I chuckle. “Oh no.” I tried that logic. It didn’t work. “We’re far beyond that argument.”

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