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He met me at the door in another dress shirt and slacks.  I really wanted to know why he was dressing like this now, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer, stubborn man.
We shared another spectacular meal, a homemade linguine with creamy pesto sauce.
I assumed he had a show that night, but as we lingered over dinner, he started talking about watching more episodes with me.
“Don’t you have to get back to the casino soon?”
“Nah, no show tonight.”
That baffled me, as I was quite familiar with his schedule.  This wasn’t one of the shows normal blackout nights.
“How is that possible?”
He just shrugged it off.  “I have a good contract, and sometimes, if I just need an extra night off, I get a night off.”
I didn’t want it to, but that warmed me from head to toe.
I kept him company in the kitchen while he made us a totally unnecessary dessert.
He started making chocolate cake from scratch, and I perched my butt on the counter and watched him, as fascinated as I’d ever been to watch him working in the kitchen.
He shot me a sideways smile.  “Sweetheart, you’ve got to stop giving me that look if you don’t want me to ruin dessert.”
“Don’t call me that,” I said weakly.
His smile grew as he turned back to his task.  “That’s right.  You prefer pudding.  I remember now.  Be careful with those looks, pudding.”
That made my fists clench, because it brought back memories, and that made me realize that every time he used his endearments on me, my endearments, it brought back memories.  Those memories were going to break down all of my defenses in no time.  That couldn’t happen.
“Boo, sweetheart, pudding.  You have got to stop it with all of those damn nicknames,” I told him, making my voice firm.
“Endearments.”
“Well, call them what you want to, but knock it off.”  I wasn’t even sure why I bothered.  He clearly wasn’t getting the message.
He stopped what he was doing and turned to me.  “Is this wager material?  Do you want me to stop that bad?”
“Oh, no.  You are not going to turn this into a bet.“
“You win, I’ll stop calling you boo.  I win, you stop complaining when I do.”
“Nuh-uh.  I already told you, not falling for it.”
“I’ll bet you one spoonful of cinnamon.”
“Excuse me?  Is that a metaphor or some kind of a dare?”
“A dare.  You eat one teaspoonful of cinnamon and you win.”
“I’m not you, Tristan.  I can turn down a dare.”
“Prove it.”
“Now you’re daring me not to take the dare?  Either way, I’ll be taking a dare.  You’re setting me up.”
“Well, take the cinnamon dare and I’ll drop it.
It did sound easy.  My eyes narrowed on him.  “Just a teaspoon full?  Not even a tablespoon?”
He grinned, showing every white tooth.  “You don’t watch YouTube much, do you?”
“No, but what does that have to do with anything?”
He bit his lip and shook his head.
“Okay, you know what?  I’ll do it.”
His response to my acquiescence was pure glee.
That should have clued me in, but hell, I’m as stubborn as he is, the crazy bastard.
First, he made sure a glass of water was on standby.
He spoke while he got out the cinnamon.  “Here are the rules: No water for one minute, and the entire spoonful has to be swallowed in that amount of time.  You spit it out, or go for the water, you lose.  You swallow it, you win.  Any questions?”
I was studying him, getting more paranoid by the second, but how hard could it be, really?  One teaspoon, a teeny, tiny spoonful of something I loved the taste of?
“Nope.  Let’s do this.”
I didn’t draw it out, grabbing the spoon and the cinnamon out of his hand, and getting it ready.
“Do you mind if I record this?” he asked.  He already sounded like he was trying not to laugh.
“That was not part of the deal.”
“I have to warn you, this is going to burn your throat and you might throw up.”
I ignored him, pushing the spoon into my mouth, planning to swallow fast.
I hadn’t even pulled it out before cinnamon was shooting out of my mouth and nose as I went into a painful fit of coughing.  I grabbed for the water, took a long swig, and spit that out too.
My throat felt on fire, eyes tearing up and running in mere seconds.
“Oh my God, it burns!” I gasped, going for another drink.  I did this three times, then started to look around for paper towels.  Not seeing them right away, I moved to Tristan and started rubbing my tongue on his very nice shirt.
The bastard deserved that and worse.
He was laughing so hard he was doubled over.
“I hate you,” I told him.
“Hey now!”
“This is disgusting.  It’s stuck to the roof of my mouth!  Ick!”
I went to the sink and started rinsing again, then back to his shirt to scrape my tongue again.
“My nose is running!  My mouth is burning!”
It took a while, but when I felt recovered enough, I whirled on him.  “That was awful.  I can’t believe you made me do that.”