I narrow my gaze at him, daring him to start his shit. Thankfully for both of us, he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out a stack of index cards from his pocket before settling back in his chair, crossing a leg over his opposite knee.
“Would you like to start or shall I?” he asks, flipping through the cards, presumably to make sure they’re all inorder.
“I will, if that’s okay with you.” I open my bag and retrieve my own cards.
“By all means.” He gestures for me to go ahead.
“Very well. Would you like to start with colors and shapes or numbers?”
“Numbers.”
“Okay.” I separate the numbered cards from the rest of the pile, shifting in my seat so that I’m facing him. “You don’t have to say anything. Just study the cards and try to remember which order I showed them to you.”
I flip through the cards slowly, giving him enough time to commit the number to memory before moving on to the next. Once I’ve gotten through all fifteen, I lower the stack into my lap.
“Now repeat them in the order in which I showed them,” I instruct, opening my notebook so I can write down his answers.
He rambles off the numbers with ease, and it isn’t until I’ve written them all down and then reviewed the order in which I showed them to him that I realize he got every single one right.
“No way.” I double- and then triple-check my work before finally looking back up at him. “You got all fifteen right.”
“Why do you seem surprised?” A semblance of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Because I am,” I say almost apologetically, though I don’t feel sorry for saying it in the least.
“You forget I have to memorize an entire playbook. Fifteen numbers is nothing.”
“Impressive.” I allow myself to admit.
“Thanks.” He drops his foot from his knee, shiftingslightly toward me. “Should we do the colors and shapes next?”
“Yeah.” I close my notebook, setting aside the numbered cards before retrieving the ones with colors and shapes scribbled onto them. I may have done them half in the dark because Lana was sleeping, but they’re good enough to do the trick.
Like before, I show him each individual card, and when I’m done, I open my notebook and take down his answers. As I did with the numbers, I double- and then triple-check my work when I see that he again got every single one correct.
“Well, how did I do?” he asks when I’m still staring at the results several moments later.
“You got them all right.” I look up to find his gaze locked on me, and I squirm a little in my seat, even though I despise my body’s reaction to him. It’s involuntary. I can promise you that.
“Of course I did.” It’s not boastful or cocky, just a simple acknowledgment. “Your turn,” he tells me, dividing his own cards.
We start with the numbers. I get the first twelve right and then stumble on the thirteenth. Much to my surprise, he doesn’t gloat or rub it in that he got more right than me.
I’m even worse at the colors and shapes, only getting six right before my mind goes completely blank. I don’t know if it’s just that I have a bad short-term memory or if it’s because Macallan is staring at me with this quiet intensity that I’m not used to, and it’s messing with my ability to focus.
Either way, I’m happy to call it a day after less than an hour, standing the instant I slip my things back into my bag.
“Good work today,” I tell him, trying my hand at civility, which is harder than it should be where he’s concerned. But he’s been on his best behavior today, so it’s the least I can do.
“You too.” He stands when I do.
“As if. I was abysmal today.”
“You were not.” He shakes his head, a smile toying at his mouth.
“I was. But thank you for saying otherwise.”
“Same time tomorrow?” He rocks back on his heels.
