Page 23 of Heart Strings
“You’d do that?”
“I won’t be the one who loses.” She’s always shit-talked with extreme confidence.
Now it’s war. I open a one-minute timer on my mobile.
“Bring it on, babe,” I say nonchalantly as the countdown begins.
Fire flares in her eyes. “I’m not your babe.”
Ignoring her outrage, I start the timer and we’re off. I’m stamping three letters at a time when she pulls the ink pad out from under them.
“Cheat!” I reach for it, but she passes it to her other hand and playfully holds it out of my reach. Of course, I could just stand up and take it, but where’s the fun in that? “Give that back right now.”
“Not a chance.” She starts furiously stamping.
I grab her by the wrist and her eyes dance with mischief.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she says.
I lunge for the supplies.
“Get”—she stamps my arm with a letterL—“off.”
Now it’s on. I snatch the ink pad and press a big gold blob to her arm as she bats me away with shrieking laughter. She presses the stamp into my forehead just as the timer interrupts the playful tension. Sixty seconds went by far too quickly.
Lo’s eyes widen, as if she’s just realized how easy it was to sink into that familiar comfort. As if she’d momentarily forgotten the past. She pulls away and turns off the phone’s beeping timer.
I’d finished one favor and got three-quarters of the way through another. Lo got two and a half done.
“Okay, you got me.” My chair makes a honking noise as I scoot closer. “Get your kicks.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I assumed she’d relish the opportunity to brand me a loser, but Cielo hesitantly taps the wooden stamp.
“Get on with it, then,” I dare her, voice soft.
“You asked for it, pretty boy.” Amusement fades into an intense expression. Scrunching her nose, Lo presses each letter into the ink, then onto my skin.L-O-S-E-R.
“You’re taking this more seriously than the favors,” I mutter to break the tension.
She snaps the ink pad closed but doesn’t lean back to appreciate her work. She stays in my personal space, breathing in the same air as she stares at my marked forehead, then lingers on my mouth. After a moment, her gaze drops back to the ink pad.
“Um, Aidan? This doesn’t say ‘washable.’ It says ‘highly pigmented, artist-grade permanent ink.’ ”
“Very funny.”
She holds the ink pad up, her face equal parts chagrin and glee. “I swear, I didn’t know.”
The last thing I hear is her cackle as I race to the bathroom. To hear that mirth in her voice, even directed at me—it was worth it.
Chapter 12
Lo
“It’s a nicearea.” I point my mom’s attention to the window and the willow trees lining the cemetery. “Very quiet neighbors, except for Lark.”
