“Good.” She smiled. “I don’t like cream in my coffee.”
She tore a large chunk of the cinnamon roll free and held it out to the boy. It was still warm, the dough was soft, and the icing dripped over her fingers.
“Here.”
The boy looked down. He didn’t have a hand free, since he was holding a coffee cup in each.
The citrus and pearl dust scented woman’s eyes darkened. “Your hands aren’t free.”
“No,” he agreed.
She stared at him for a long moment. “You really trust me.”
She sounded surprised. The boy, by not having a hand free to conjure, was leaving himself vulnerable. He could drop the cups, but that breath of time could mean the difference between life and death.
“Well,” the boy said, “why not?”
The woman shook her head and held out the cinnamon roll, touching it to the boy’s mouth. His flush deepened, his cheeks turning red. The wind rode over his hot skin as he accepted the dessert.
It was a strange picture. The woman was disguised as an old, potbellied man. The boy was taller than her, blond, with two days of beard growth, wearing a wrinkled T-shirt. Anyone who passed by would wonder at the look in the boy’s green eyes.
The woman traced her fingers across the boy’s mouth, wiping free a bit of frosting. “Good?”
The boy nodded then ducked his head and reached for the coffee cups. “Here. Coffee.”
He shoved the cup into the woman’s free hand and then took a long swallow of his drink. He coughed, gasped, and turned to the side. “Hot. Sorry. It’s hot.”
The citrus and pearl dust scented woman laughed. Her laughter was like seashells tinkling musically under a playful tide. Oh, the wind liked the sound.
The boy’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled. “I came for my favor.”
The woman’s breath caught, and then she dropped the cinnamon roll back into the box. She hid her expression behind her coffee cup’s lid and took a long, deep drink. Her eyes watered, and she wheezed. “You weren’t kidding.”
The boy shook his head, then he set his coffee down and put his hands in his pockets.
“So. Your favor?”
The wind circled around their ankles.
“Right,” the boy said. “Do you have time?”
“Now?”
He nodded. “Now. Today.”
“All day?” The woman leaned toward him and smiled. The wind traced the tilt of her mouth. She tasted like sugar and cinnamon.
“Until lunch.”
“Oh.” The woman dropped back and frowned. The wind kicked the boy. The woman wanted to spend all day with him, not just the morning. The wind kicked him again. He should ask?—
“Sorry, did you want to spend longer?”
“No. No, that’s okay. Until lunch is good. Great. I only . . . I only . . . I need to stop by my place and leave a note for Raggie. He worries. I mean . . . oh . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I’m rambling. What’s wrong with me? What is this?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “What?”
“You don’t understand. I don’t do this. I don’t . . . ramble. I’m sophisticated. I date. I enjoy men. I have many, many admirers, including actors, musicians, heads of state, royals . . . oh . . . I’m doing it again. I’m rambling. Okay, here it is. I’m going to admit something. Do not laugh.” She glared at him, then she said in a rush, “I’m nervous.”
