Antonius poured them some more.
Because it was a private charity event and neither a restaurant nor a tavern, Antonius ordered shots for them, and Flicka thought that shots sounded like agreatidea. Wulfie and Deet-Deets were always drinking whiskey. It must be fun.
Oh, it was fun.
Dieter stood behind her for a while. Someone asked him, “Raphael?” but he said,“Nein,”in a low, guttural voice.
That was funny, that someone asked Dieter if he was an angel. He sure as heck wasn’t. A mischievous imp, maybe, or a smoky demon sent to enrage her by following her around all the time.
A few minutes later, Flicka was half-lying on the table, her cheek on her arm, laughing hysterically at some joke Antonius had made.
It washysterical.
Really.
And she couldn’t stop laughing—
—even though she couldn’t quite remember the punchline.
But it rhymed.
She knew that much.
It rhymed.
Antonius was holding her hand.
He said, “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, stumbling after him while she held his hand.
His palm was big and warm on hers.
She liked it.
He said, “Someplace private.”
Antonius was gorgeous, and gorgeous was awesome, and awesome was kissing, and she was right up for it. “Okay.”
She followed him through the crowd, stumbling along with her hand in his like she was being towed on a leash.
Out the big doors and down the hallway.
His hand led her.
She followed, giggling.
Darkness enveloped Flicka. “Antonius? Where are you?”
“Right here.”
A line of light that filtered through the big, potted plant crossed his face. She could just see his rounded lips.
He touched Flicka’s jaw, lifting her face. “You are so beautiful.”
The wine and shots were messing with Flicka’s head. “Thanks. You, too.”
“I want to kiss you.”
