Page 21 of Mistlefoe
“Okay, stop.”
Sierra reels back. “What?”
“Stop that thing you’re doing. The pitying all over your face.” I point at her face with my finger and run eights in the air. “That right there is what I hate the most in the entireworld. And if you truly meant what you said this morning, feeling sorry for me isn’t the way to make us get along.”
She turns her frown away from me. “Fine, I’ll try. Just watch where you’re going. You’re too tall for your own good and you might run smack into something and keel over in front of me.”
“So that wouldn’t make you happy?” I dare to nudge her with my elbow.
“No.” She smacks my arm away. “It’d be too messy and with our history, I’d be suspected of murder.”
“True. Aren’t you regretting hating me now?” I can tell that was the wrong joke to say the second her entire body grows as stiff as a plank.
“Let’s go.” She walks almost robotically to the ticket booth.
I’m still trying to figure out why that comment sat so badly with her when she slams a ticket against my chest. Sierra doesn’t wait until I grab it before pulling away, and I end up having to catch it midair.
“Can we find something to eat first?” I ask both to change the mood and also because, thanks to Gramps, my stomach is doing the twist and shout.
“Best idea you’ve had all day, Conor Mahoney.”
We sweep our eyes across the place. The expanse of the convention center has been transformed into a maze of booths advertising everything from recycled wrapping paper, hand-carved elves, and glitter-covered garlands that in my opinion should be outlawed. There are so many people it’s hard to see what’s in the stalls beyond the entrance and no one thought of hanging high enough signs for my benefit.
But then I catch whiff of something wonderful. It’s cinnamony and sugary, and I shift gears to head that way.
“What the?—”
“Follow the scent, Fernandez.” I point to the left. “That way.”
I act as an icebreaker for her, though at some point we have to pass through a big crush that makes me slow down. Sierra runs into my back and I pause to glance over my shoulder. She’s rubbing that button nose of hers that she typically has upturned in my direction.
Damn, she’s cute.
I clear my throat. “You doing okay down there?”
“Not if you brake like that, no.”
“Sorry. Grab onto my jacket, or something.”
A second later, I feel the tug of her hand grabbing a fistful of my jacket. I resume the trek, pretending like my pulse didn’t do a weird thing just now.
We make it to the goal and I spread my arms wide like I’m the one responsible for the existence of a food stand. “Voilà.”
Sierra steps out from behind me and gasps so loud, a bunch of people nearby turn to us. She clasps her hands at her chest and screeches, “Churros?”
I double check. Honestly, I didn’t really care what the food was but there’s a sign hanging over the stand confirming what the goods are. And even better, it looks like they sell hot chocolate.
“No,” I say gravely. “Heaven.”
I recognize the look she’s giving me. It’s the same one I used to get from opposing team players right before a faceoff. She stands no chance against me as we race towards the end of the line for the churros, which is probably why she tries to play dirty.Triesbeing the keyword there, because it doesn’t matter how hard she pulls at my jacket, I’ll still run even if the thing comes off.
My clothes are all askew when I get to the line before her. “Geez, woman. It’s churros, not the promotion.”
“You’re right, you get the churros and I get the promotion. How about that?” Her lips stretch into a wide grin andsomething in me unwinds. This is a bit more like the Sierra I’m used to. No more pitying glances or awkwardness.
I shake my index finger. “Nuh-uh. I’m getting bothandanother cup of hot chocolate.”
“Whatever.” She gives me the cold shoulder in favor of studying the menu hanging from the top sign. I guess she doesn’t know that I’m still looking at her, because she runs the tip of her tongue across her lips, already tasting the goodies.
