The surprise is still lingering on his face, and seeing him so thrown off-balance is quite amusing.
“Keeping the secret was so hard,” Gaby huffs.
“Were you in on it too?” Diego asks Jordan.
My brother grins, but doesn’t say anything. I don’t think Diego is annoyed with any of us, but rather amazed. The look he gave me while awarding me the medal made undeniable butterflies flutter in my stomach and, as much as I tried to tame them, I felt defenseless.
“Did you have fun judging us?” I ask Diego. Although hedidn’t voice the sentiment, I know he’s grateful my dad and the committee asked him to be part of the jury.
His face lights up – an image I try to commit to memory. “I really did.”
“But on a scale from zero to ten,” Jordan begins, “how badly did you want to be amongst the contestants?”
“Ninety-nine. But, let’s be honest, I would’ve won.”
“Aw, you’re so humble,” I comment sardonically.
That earns me a dimpled grin that awakens the wild butterflies in my stomach.
Gaby rolls her eyes. “I swear, your oversized head is going to explode soon.”
“I don’t know what’s better,” Diego drones, “having a big ego or a pea brain like yours?”
Jordan snorts. He actually snorts.
“Jordan,” Gaby says excitedly, completely ignoring her brother. “Can we grab some churros?”
“Fuck, yes. I thought you’d never ask.”
When did these two start hanging out this much?
I don’t have the time to ask if Diego and I can join, as they’re already gone and weaving through the crowd. As always, Diego’s gaze warms my cheek, and when I turn to look at him, he quickly glances away.
“Shall we?” I’m already sauntering off toward the market when he finally decides to fall into step beside me. I’ve traded my snowboarding gear for normal clothes, and I regret not taking my scarf and gloves, but with the amount of people around, I might be able to seek some warmth by staying close to the crowd. “Do you want to eat something?”
“I kinda want a crêpe,” he replies absently, looking around.
Perfect. With all the smells assaulting my nose, my stomach is grumbling in protest. “Chez Mariehas the best ones. Come on.”
Trying to push past small groups huddled under heaters or waiting in line for food, I lose Diego. When warm fingers wrap around my hand and tug me forward, I don’t even have to look up to know it’s him. It’s strange – this familiarity, this comfort he provides me. This is the first time we’re truly touching, aside from fleeting, teasing caresses of each other’s arm or back, yet my body already recognizes him.
I suddenly remember when he ate at my place a week ago, when he lifted my chin so that I’d look him in the eyes. It was such a brief, meaningless bit of contact, but my body hums to life again just at the thought of it.
“Alara,” he grumbles, bringing me back to reality. “You need gloves. I can feel your fingers ready to fall off.”
I glance down at the way his hand envelops mine, a blush rising in my cheeks. I want to risk something tonight, so when I entwine my fingers with his and he doesn’t pull away, I inwardly grin. My younger self would freak out.
We get in line in front of the little chalet that serves crêpes, a dozen people in front of us. Diego lets go of my hand, tugs me in by the belt loop of my jeans until I’m almost flush to his chest, and grabs the hem of my coat.
“You’re going to freeze,” he mumbles.
I’m anything but cold right now.
Slowly, he starts buttoning my jacket with a sheer concentration that I find utterly adorable. There’s a slight tremble in his fingers, a subtle blush rising on his tanned cheekbones. I suddenly want to brush it away, but I force myself to tuck my hands in my pockets.
“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” I say softly.
Brown eyes flick up to mine. “How do you know?”
