Working With Heat. Anne Calhoun

      “So, what happened?”

      She relayed the story, right down to the yellow Lamborghini and the hello, darling, and everyone at the table dissolved into laughter. “Because, of course, all I’m interested in is his car.”

      “Have you noticed that men barely ask you about yourself?” Elsa said.

      “I’m sorry, were you speaking?” Kaitlin said, deadpan.

      “It’s funny to watch them flail for more things to tell you about themselves. And then I...”

      “Oi,” Charlie said. “Half the time we’re not sure if we’re allowed to ask you about yourselves. Are we chatting you up or a creeper?”

      “My entire life is online,” Milla pointed out. “I think it’s fairly obvious cars aren’t high on my list of priorities.”

      The quizmaster tapped the mic to get their attention. “Right then, folks. Your entry fee is going to the Spitalfields Trust, restoring the East End, so you have nothing at stake besides bragging rights and a fabulous T-shirt, designed by our very own up-and-coming graphic designer Kaitlin Connolly.” Kaitlin waved, and a ragged cheer went up. The quizmaster pulled his cell phone from his pocket and waggled it at the crowd. “No using these to look up answers. Put them on the table where we can all see them.”

      The sound of electronic devices thudding against the plastic tablecloths competed with the music for a moment. Milla took a picture of the pile, hurriedly sending it into her social media streams. At the Fire Spell for the pub quiz for the Spitalfields Trust. Come on down! #Pubquiz #thefirespell

      “Come on,” Charlie chided. “You’ll be all right without that.”

      “Just one more thing...” she said distractedly. She’d been tossing ideas around with a couple of travel sites that had showed some interest in sponsoring her trips in exchange for advertising, but so far none of them had actually made an offer. Her future depended on a steady online presence and increasing numbers of fans and followers.

      Charlie plucked her phone from her hand and dropped it in the pile.

      “Hey! I wasn’t done.”

      “Whatever tweets or texts or messages you’re waiting for will be there in a couple of hours.”

      “Are you calling me an addict?”

      “It’s practically adhered to your hand.”

      “It’s my work,” she said.

      “Work is, by definition, something you leave in order to spend time with people. I left my work at the studio. You leave yours right there,” he said, nodding at the pile of phones in the center of the table.

      “Yes, and two hours from now your paper will be covered with doodles and sketches for your next piece. I just doodle and sketch into my phone. If I took that pen from you, you’d be having kittens in no time.”

      “Children. Stop squabbling,” Kaitlin said. “There is a T-shirt at stake.”

      “We always come in last,” Elsa pointed out.

      “But this week the topic is ‘80s music,” Kaitlin said. “Have you not looked at the sheet?”

      “Sweet!” Milla lifted her hands and did a little chair dance.

      “An area of expertise?” Billy said.

      “I’m the worst possible person for a pub quiz team. I only know random historical facts about the places I’ve lived or visited, but I have an inexhaustible knowledge of pop hits from the ‘80s. And punk. And hair bands. All the ‘80s music, actually,” she said.

      “Really?” Charlie said incredulously. “Is that what’s coming up through the floor when you’re getting ready in the morning?”

      Milla’s phone, screen down on top of the pile, buzzed. She reached for it, but Kaitlin smacked her hand. “We actually have a shot at this,” she said. “Don’t shame us.”

      The entire crowd shamed cheaters by forcing them to wear a filthy, ragged fool’s cap for the next round. The highly effective method virtually eliminated what little cheating might happen in a charity quiz. “We have a shot at winning a T-shirt,” Milla said.

      “A very cool T-shirt,” Kaitlin said. “Designed by one of London’s up-and-coming graphic designers.”

      “Can’t you make yourself one?” Billy asked.

      “I could, but that would be cheating. I want to win one,” Kaitlin said. “Look sharp, everyone.”

      The quizmaster settled onto his stool and started reading out the questions. The team huddled together around Milla. She was acutely aware of Charlie’s body pressed into hers, the heat he seemed to absorb from the furnace heated to over eleven hundred degrees Celsius, the tensile strength in his arms and hands. He shot her a conspiratorial grin, then leaned over to murmur in her ear.

      “Be here, Milla. Be here, now.”

      His breath against her ear and cheek reminded her exactly how long it had been since she’d felt a man’s rough skin against her face as he whispered to her. She bit her lip and felt her cheeks flush, and was glad everyone’s attention was focused on the quizmaster’s brisk pace.

      “The first quiz, boys and girls, features singles with the words boys or girls, plural or singular, in the title. I’ll give you the band’s name. You give me the song title.”

      Milla’s knee bounced in excitement, until Charlie pressed his thigh to hers.

      Definitely a mutual attraction. A shiver zinged up her spine, raising gooseflesh on her bare arms.

      “Chilliwack.”

      “‘My Girl (Gone, Gone, Gone),’” Milla whispered as she scribbled it down.

      “Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney.”

      “Oh! Oh! ‘The Girl Is Mine’!” Kaitlin hissed. Milla nodded.

      “Don Henley.”

      “‘Boys of Summer,’” Milla, Kaitlin and Billy all chorused.

      “Manhattan Transfer.”

      “‘The Boy from New York City,’” Billy said confidently.

      “Cyndi Lauper.”

      “‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun,’” Charlie said.

      Milla smiled at him, her eyes alight. While Charlie was in and out of their apartment on a regular basis, he didn’t go out much other than to come to the pub quiz every week. “Nice one.”

      “You knew that answer.”

      “That’s not always the point.”

      “Pet Shop Boys,” the quizmaster continued.

      “Is that the answer?” Billy asked, looking up at the quizmaster.

      “No, ‘West End Girls’ is the answer,” Milla said and hummed the song’s chorus. “You know. East End boys and West End girls.”

      Charlie’s grin disappeared. He lifted his pint and finished it off. “Next round’s mine,” he said and got up.

      “It’s supposed to be mine,” Milla protested.

      “You’ve got this. I’ll get the drinks,” he said, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

      Milla watched him walk to the bar. By the way his smile shattered into shards, there was a story she didn’t know. But unlike many of her dates, Charlie didn’t talk about himself.

      She reached for his sleeve. “Just a half for me,” she said gently. Given the vibe humming between them, she wanted her wits about her.

      They played