Page 80 of Star-Crossed
“Therethey are!”
Cy’s entire body tensed at the instantly recognizable voice.
Myrtle.
Glancing over the flounced shoulder of Cady’s sleeve, Cy saw the ash-gray shock of hair cutting its way through the crowd that seemed to be giving her an especially wide berth. Only when the rabble parted did he see the reason why.
Her costume was approximately five feet wide.
It was a masterpiece of construction, Cy had to admit, from the bright pink bodysuit hugging her spindly arms and legs to the folded half-circle of fuchsia foam that stretched from her knees to her neck. Vee, on the other hand, was far more subdued and somehow managed to emit a dignified air even when enclosed in the giant beige bell dotted with clusters of bright blue sequins.
It took an embarrassingly long time for Cy to make the connection.
Muffin. Taco.
In his defense, the taco’s being pink had thrown him.
“Oh my gosh,” Lyra said, catching sight of them. “Don’t you two look…festive!”
“So do you, darling,” Vee said, bending to kiss the air by both of her cheeks. “But your true identities are far more sensational, if you ask me.”
“A lawyer and a tree guy?” Lyra scoffed.
And though he knew the words were literally part of his marketing copy, Cy couldn’t help but flinch at how ridiculous those two professions sounded together.
“Heroes,” Vee said, her eyes reflecting neon as they misted over.
“Damn right,” Myrtle agreed. “That’s twice now that my Darrell would have gone limping into the great beyond it if it hadn’t been for you two.” Pulling off a yellow Velcro rectangle Cy now realized was meant to be shredded cheese, she dabbed the corners of her eyes with it. “The world just isn’t a kind place for a three-legged llama.”
An awkward silence followed.
Because what did a muffin, a taco, a pirate, a witch, a princess, and a cursed animorph have to say to each other after a statement like that?
“You’re entering the Significant Other Carrying Contest, right?” Vee asked, reviving the conversation.
“Thewhatnow?” Lyra asked.
Vee smiled. “It’s a Norse custom most likely brought over by our former sheriff’s great-great-great grandfather,” she said. “Of course, it was originally awife-carrying contest, which manages to be totally infantilizing in addition to a completely brazen and vulgar display of male strength as social placeholder for virility, but they’ve updated the name to make it more inclusive. This year the prize is an impressive haul from Baked, and it’s great fun.”
Cy glanced at Lyra, an unspoken question in his eyes.
Dressing up in coordinated costumes to make a point was one thing. But officially declaring themselves as part of significant othership? That was a whole other thing.
The corner of her mouth curled in a smirk that sent lava pooling in his belly.
“Let’s do it,” she said.
“Marvelous,” Vee said. “This way.”
She and Myrtle started off, their giant costumes plowing a path for them to follow.
Lyra reached back and laced her hand with Cy’s as they maneuvered through the crowd. Catching his eye, she gave him a sexy little wink that made his lacings on his leather breeches feel like barbed wire.
People were watching them, curious eyes moving over her first—naturally—before finding him through the tether of their clasped hands.
Pride swelled his chest at the frank envy on their faces, followed by a cold wash of fear.
Was the affection, like their costumes, designed to achieve a social agenda? Her version of a behavioral accessory? Or did she really want to hold his hand?
