Logan smirks, his attention shifting back to me. “You can fight my dad on plans all day long, butthat’sone battle I’d suggest you bow out of.”
I laugh, holding up my hands in defeat.
“Fine. Breakfast first, but then we’re bringing Olaf to life.”
Turns out, it’s not only kids and their reluctant parents at Washington Square Park; there’s atonof people by the time we head down from the apartment. Young couples, groups of teenagers, even adults are all out braving the chilly winter day, building snowmen, moseying through the park, or doing snowboarding tricks off stair rails.
Logan and I find a relatively open spot in one of the clearings and set to work on making our own version of Olaf, who I’ve named Loaf. One, because Loaf is just Olaf with the letters swapped around—a nod to my dyslexia. And two, he is quite a bit taller than the movie version, seeing as I accidentally roll the bottom snowball way too big.
Logan rolls his own for the second tier, and we stack them together, me packing them for stability while Logan works on the third.
“Okay, this one’s ready,” he calls from a few feet away.
I haul the damn thing to make the head at the top of the stack, then pack a little snow at the neck to secure it in place. Once I step back to admire our handiwork, I realize…Loaf might be as tall as Logan. Not nearly as handsome, though that might be the lack of limbs and face.
Logan cocks his head, staring at our masterpiece with the scrutiny of an artist.
“What? I know he still needs arms and everything, but—”
“No, it’s not that,” he cuts in, frowning. “It’s just… He’s kinda lopsided, dontcha think?”
I shoot him a dirty look. “He’s perfect.”
“Cam, he’s literally about to fall—”
He doesn’t have the chance to finish the sentence before the snowman’s head slowly careens off to the left and plummets back to the ground. I purse my lips, waiting for Logan’s inevitableI told you so,but it doesn’t come. Not that he needs to say it, seeing as the smirk he’s wearing just about says it all.
With a sigh, I drop down and make a new snowball so I can roll another head. One that hopefully decides to stay firmly on Loaf’s shoulders this time.
“You said you’re from Vermont, right?” Logan asks.
I glance up at him, arching a brow. “Yeah. Why?”
“Just seems like you should be better at packing snow when you grew up buried in it for eight months of the year.”
I scoff, and playfully toss the snowball I just made, pelting him in the shoulder.
“Hey!” he exclaims, his gloved hand reaching up to where I hit him. “What was that for?”
“Wanna tell me how I can’t pack snow again?” I taunt.
I’m already making another snowball, and I throw that one at him too. Even though he sees this one coming, he still doesn’t have enough time to turn out of the way, and it nails him in the chest.
He gapes at me for a second, still processing my attack, before shaking his head.
“Oh, it’s so fucking on.”
In true Logan fashion, he retaliates in kind, already reaching down to create his own ammunition. But how easily he forgets,I have the speed of an athlete on my side, and I’m able to avoid being hit by ducking out of the way.
Unfortunately, the couple strolling behind me aren’t as lucky, and Logan’s stray throw winds up hitting the guy in the back, square between the shoulders.
He tenses and turns, looking for the source of the blow, only for his eyes to land on a rather guilty-looking Logan.
“I’m so sorry!” Logan calls out before pointing at me. “I was aiming for him.”
The stranger just laughs and shouts, “Maybe get better aim, then!”
I snicker under my breath, the comeback rather funny. But not nearly as hilarious as the stranger’s girlfriend coming out of nowhere with a snowball and a perfect aim at her intended target: Logan.
