The Love Wager by Lynn Painter

            She shrugged and wondered what kind of workout made a chest that broad. A lot of guys had pecs, but he looked like a professional athlete in his black V-neck sweater with the oxford underneath. Like he’d just showered and was ready for a post-game presser.

            She got distracted for the briefest of seconds by his prominent Adam’s apple and a flashback from the hotel of her tongue on his neck.

            “I think it’s a cavemannish, biological thing,” Hallie said, taking a sip of her coffee and righting her mind. “Your brain knows you copulated with a particular female, so now your ego ensures that you see said female as attractive.”

            That made his dimples pop. “Is this what you tell yourself so you feel better about finding me wickedly attractive? That you only think I’m hot because we bonked?”

            “First of all, I find you painfully unattractive. It hurts my eyes to look at you, if I’m being honest.”

            “Ouch,” he said, putting his hands into the pockets of his pants.

            “Yeah, suuuuper disgusting.”

            “I get that a lot.”

            “I’m not surprised. Second of all, it’s very unappealing for a man to say ‘bonk.’ Very ungentlemanlike. Let the ladies use their power words, and you stick to being charming.”

            “I’ll do better. Shall we walk?”

            Hallie nodded and they started their way down the street. She caught a whiff of cologne—or soap or something manly—and she was trying to identify the scent when he interrupted her thoughts.

            “So. Have you practiced your lines?”

            “What lines?”

            “Your speed dating lines.” He nudged her arm with his elbow and said, “You’re going to get a lot of questions thrown at you fast, so you have to be ready.”

            “Crap, I totally didn’t study. Let’s practice.”

            He cleared his throat, changed his voice, and said, “So, Hallie. What do you do for fun?”

            Hallie looked at his face and drew a blank. “I, um, I read a lot . . . ?”

            He scrunched up his nose. “Said the most boring girl in history. Try again.”

            “I watch TV,” she tried again, and realized that she absolutely was the most boring girl. “I like to run, and nothing thrills me quite like a New Girl marathon.”

            “Come on, TB—strive for interesting. At least throw on an accent. That makes anything sound exciting.”

            “Okay.” Hallie racked her brain before saying in a deplorable Southern accent, “I sew tiny articles of clothing for baby chipmunks, y’all.”

            “Do you actually do that?”

            “Of course not, y’all.”

            “People from the South don’t say ‘y’all’ in every sentence.”

            “You sure, y’all?”

            “You must stop that at once.”

            “Fine.” She cleared her throat before whispering, Y’all.

            “On a side note, even if you did sew tiny chipmunk attire, it’s only interesting if it involves short-shorts.”

            “On me or the chipmunks?”

            He rolled his eyes. “Obviously the chipmunks.”

            “Obviously.”

            He said, “Okay, well, let’s hope you don’t get asked that question. How about this—what do you do for a living?”

            They reached the corner and stopped, waiting for the light to change. She said, “I am a tax accountant. What about you?”

            “Amateur taxidermist.”

            Hallie turned and looked up at him. Something about the teasing glint in his eye made her think of Chris Evans; they both had that “I would prank you so hard” vibe. She attempted a British accent and replied, “That sounds bloody fascinating. How long have you been doing that?”