My knuckles whiten against the steering wheel as I rehearse my game plan for the fifth time. "Keep your cool. Don't smile too much. Make her work for it." The dashboard clock flips to 5:00 PM, and my heart rate doubles instantly.
I've spent the last five hours strategizing like a general before battle. This time, I won't be the desperate one. This time, I'll have the upper hand. I've even practiced my disinterested expression in the rearview mirror until my face hurt.
My phone buzzes with a text from Calista. 'Coming out now.'
I straighten my posture and arrange my features into what I hope is a mask of casual indifference. The museum's heavy wooden door swings open, and there she is, crimson eyes catching the late afternoon sunlight, that auburn gleaming like burnished copper. My practiced indifference already feels like a house of cards in a hurricane.
She doesn't hesitate, doesn't look around, doesn't even acknowledge me with a wave. She strides directly to my car with absolute certainty, as if the passenger seat belongs to her by divine right. When she pulls open the door and slides in beside me, the air in the car immediately fills with that exotic spice scent that's been haunting my dreams.
"Hi," she says simply, buckling her seatbelt without looking at me.
I open my mouth to deliver my carefully rehearsed cool greeting, but what comes out instead is, "You look stunning."
I mentally kick myself. So much for holding all the power. Five seconds in her presence and I've already rolled over like an eager puppy.
"Thank you," she replies with a knowing smile that suggests she expected nothing less.
I clear my throat, trying to recalibrate my strategy. "I, uh, made reservations at Paradiso for six. It's that really nice Italian place downtown that just opened. I hear they make the best…"
"No," Calista interrupts, her voice gentle but firm.
"What?" I blink, thrown off balance once again.
She turns those impossible red eyes toward me, her lips curved into a smile that's both sweet and predatory. "You're coming to my house tonight."
"Oh?" My carefully constructed script crumbles completely.
"I'm going to cook you a meal," she continues, her tone making it sound less like an invitation and more like an inevitability, "and you're going to tell me how much you love it."
"But the res…"
"No," she cuts me off again as her smile widens. Her hand reaches across the center console to rest on my thigh, her touch sending electricity through my jeans. "Trust me, Ethan. What I'm offering is much better than anything you'd get at Paradiso."
The way she says it makes me think we're not just talking about food anymore. My throat goes dry, and I nod mutely, already surrendering to whatever she has planned.
"Good boy," she purrs, and there's that phrase again, making my stomach flip like I'm in free fall. "Now drive. I'll give you directions."
As I follow Calista's directions, we barely drive five minutes before she gestures to a small, weathered Victorian on a tree-lined street just a few blocks from downtown Salem.
"That's it. Pull over here," she says, pointing to a parking space along the curb.
I ease my car into the spot, taking in the house as I kill the engine. It's a modest single-story with faded blue paint and ornate white trim that's seen better days. The small front yard is meticulously maintained though, with strange-looking plants I don't recognize forming precise geometric patterns around a stone pathway.
"You live here?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise. The location is prime real estate, just walking distance from all the boutiques and restaurants of downtown Salem. Even a tiny place like this must cost a fortune.
Calista's eyes follow mine as she studies her home through my perspective. "It's not much to look at from the outside," she admits, "but it has... character."
We walk up the stone path together, my feet crunching over what looks like crushed bone but is probably just decorative white gravel. The porch creaks under our weight as she fishes an antique-looking key from her purse.
"So you actually own this place?" I ask, glancing around at the neighboring houses, all substantially larger and more recently renovated. "I mean, most people our age are stuck in apartments with three roommates."
She pushes the door open, revealing glimpses of deep red walls and dark wood furniture within. A bittersweet smile crosses her face as she turns to me.
"I inherited it when my mother passed," she says simply, her crimson eyes momentarily dimming. "It's been in the family for generations."
Something in her tone makes me hesitate to ask follow-up questions. The grief feels fresh, raw. Instead, I just nod and follow her inside, the door closing behind us with a heavy thud that feels strangely final.
The interior is nothing like I expected. Where the outside appears neglected, the inside is immaculate and oddly... timeless. The furniture looks antique but perfectly preserved, each piece seeming to belong exactly where it sits. The walls are painted a deep scarlet that should make the space feel smaller but somehow doesn't.
"Make yourself comfortable," Calista says, gesturing toward a plush velvet sofa. "I'll get us some wine."
I sink into the sofa, which is surprisingly firm despite its soft appearance. From this vantage point, I can see into what must be her dining room, where an elaborate place setting for two has already been arranged on a small oak table. Crystal glasses catch the light from an overhead chandelier, sparkling like diamonds.
Calista returns moments later, a wine bottle tucked under her arm and two glasses dangling from her fingers. Without hesitation, she glides across the room and settles directly onto my lap, her weight both substantial and perfect. My hands instinctively find her hips to steady her.
"I hope you like Cabernet," she says, pouring a deep crimson liquid that matches her eyes with uncanny precision.
I accept the glass she offers.
"You already set the table," I observe, my voice catching slightly as she shifts on my lap. "Even before I showed up at your workplace today?"
Another knowing smile plays across her lips as she takes a deliberate sip from her glass. "I had a feeling you'd come by."
The implication sends a strange thrill through me. Was she that confident I'd track her down? Or something more unsettling, did she plan for it all along?
"You are..." I search for the right words while the wine's rich flavor blooms on my tongue. "You're very different from anyone I've ever met before."
Instead of answering, Calista leans forward, her lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. The warm touch of her mouth against my neck sends jolt racing down my spine, and I nearly spill my wine.
"Of course I am," she whispers against my skin, her breath hot and intoxicating.
I try to regain some semblance of control, setting my glass on the side table with a hand that's not quite steady. "You're making it very hard for me to take the lead here."
Her teeth graze my earlobe, and she pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. There's something ancient and knowing in her gaze that makes me feel like I'm falling into a crimson abyss.
"Then stop trying," she commands softly, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Before I can formulate a response, her mouth captures mine. The kiss is different from our previous ones, slower, more deliberate, but somehow even more consuming. Her lips taste like wine and secrets, and I find myself surrendering completely, my hands sliding up her back to pull her closer.
When she finally breaks the kiss, I'm breathing hard, my head spinning in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.
"I've never..." I start, then stop, unsure how to explain the intensity of what I'm feeling.
She places a finger over my lips, effectively silencing my fumbling confession.
"Hold that thought," she whispers, sliding gracefully off my lap. She retrieves my abandoned wine glass and presses it firmly into my hands. "I have to go cook you dinner. Just stay in here and try not to miss me too much."
As she sashays toward what I assume is the kitchen, I glance around the living room, suddenly aware of the absence of modern distractions. No television, no sound system, not even a bookshelf, just antique furniture and peculiar artifacts displayed on the crimson walls.
"Hey, I can help," I call after her, already rising from the sofa. "I'd love to…"
"No." Her voice cuts through the air like a blade, stopping me mid-motion. There's no anger in it, just absolute authority. "Stay in here. No peeking."
I sink back down, oddly chastened but also intrigued by her commanding tone. The wine suddenly tastes sweeter on my tongue.
"What's for dinner?" I ask, trying to sound casual despite the strange spark humming through my veins.
Calista pauses in the doorway, those crimson eyes flashing with mischief. "Your new favorite food," she answers with such conviction that I almost believe her, despite the impossibility of her knowing my preferences.
The sounds of cooking soon drift from the kitchen, the rhythmic chopping of a knife, the sizzle of something, Calista's voice as she hums an unfamiliar melody that somehow makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I sip my wine and try to process the whirlwind of the past twenty-four hours. The rational part of my brain keeps trying to raise red flags, the intensity is too much, the connection too immediate, her behavior too controlling, but each concern dissolves like sugar in hot tea the moment I picture her face.
"Don't touch anything," her voice calls from the kitchen, as if she can sense my restlessness.
"I wasn't going to," I protest, though my fingers had been inching toward a small wooden box on the side table.
"Yes, you were."
I withdraw my hand and take another gulp of wine to prepare myself for tonight.