He grins, and for a second I think it’s because of my response.
It’s not.
He cranks the wheel, making a sharp turn and cutting off a red minivan, slotting into the parking spot they’ve clearly been waiting for.
The smile widens as he shifts into park.
I gape at him. “Are you serious?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “What? It’s a spot.”
In the rearview mirror, the minivan driver is giving us the evil eye. I immediately lift a hand in an apologetic wave—sorry, so sorry. I had nothing to do with this. He’s feral. I don’t know what to do with him.
The driver flips us off and peels away.
“You’re a monster,” I tell him.
“I prefer ‘efficient.’” He kills the engine like he didn’t just commit a parking lot crime.
I mutter obscenities under my breath as I unbuckle and prepare to exit the warmth of the car.
“Don’t forget your earmuffs,” he mutters, voice gruff and authoritative.
He reaches over the console, handing them to me with the most serious of expressions.
“Surprised you didn’t hide these from me, considering how much you hate them,” I tease as I slip them over my ears.
He glances over his shoulder as he steps out of the car. “It’s cold and they keep you warm.”
Okay, then.
As we stride toward the store, I link my fingers with Cameron’s. I’m not much of a hand-holder—side effect of being a hand talker—but I’m a little nervous that he may make a run for it if I don’t. He gives my hand a small squeeze and doesn’t let go.
“Our first order of business is hot dogs.” I tug on his hand, dragging him to the small food court by the registers. “I don’t want to shop hangry.”
“I can’t eat the bun,” he says, his tone flat.
“I know. Trust me, okay?”
He replies with a sharp nod. It’s not exactly the enthusiasm MetroMart’s famous dogs deserve, but I’ll take what I can get.
I order two hot dogs sans buns, but with all the fixings, then march straight to the bread aisle while Cameron trails behind me like a tattooed shadow. I grab a package of gluten-free buns, rip it open, and assemble our hot dogs.
His eyes widen, pure incredulity sketched across his features. “Kennedy. You can’t just?—”
“Eat something I’m going to buy?” I shrug. “Yes, I can.”
Without breaking eye contact, I bite into my hot dog. The groan that follows is unbidden but well-deserved.
“I cannot believe you just did that.” He peers over his shoulder, as if looking for the FBI agents who are going to rappel down from the ceiling and take me to Guantanamo Bay for eating a hot dog.
“There’s not a rule against it.”
“I feel like ‘societal norms’ is a good enough reason,” he snaps back.
Spine snapping straight, I glare up at him. “Eat the hot dog, Cameron.”
“I’m not eating your stolen goods,” he whisper-yells, his eyes darting from side to side. “Stop trying to make me an accomplice.”
