“Behave,” he said, but his hand was still on my neck, thumb stroking against my pulse point.
“Where's the fun in that?”
“Soren.”
“Fine. I'll behave. For now.”
He let go of my neck with visible reluctance, and we started walking again. I took another lick of my ice cream and tried to look innocent, which was difficult considering I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
“You know,” I said after a minute, “vanilla gets a bad rap. I bet if you let it, it could surprise you.”
“Is this still about ice cream?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You're impossible.”
“And you love it.”
We made it maybe fifty feet down the path before I heard the familiar sound of aggressive quacking behind us. I turned around and saw them—a small army of ducks waddling toward us with the kind of determination usually reserved for hitmen in action movies.
“Oh no,” I said.
“Not again,” Rook muttered.
“They remember us.”
“Ducks don't remember people.”
“These ducks do. Look at them. They're out for blood.”
The lead duck—a particularly aggressive mallard with a chip on his shoulder and a vendetta in his eyes—was making a beeline straight for us, and his friends were falling in behind him like a gang ready to rumble.
“Why do they keep doing this?” Rook asked, picking up his pace.
“Because you're intimidating and they want to establish dominance. It's a sports thing.”
“I'm not gonna get into a turf war with a duck.”
“Too late. You're already in it.”
The ducks were gaining on us now, quacking with increasing volume and fury. I was laughing so hard I nearly dropped my ice cream, and Rook shot me a look that said he was deeply unimpressed with my priorities.
“This is your fault,” he said. “You're encouraging them.”
“I'm not encouraging them! I'm just appreciating the drama of it all.”
“Stop appreciating and start walking faster.”
We picked up the pace, but the ducks matched us stride for stride. The lead mallard was close enough now that I could see the murder in his beady little eyes, and I had the sudden terrible certainty that he was gonna go for Rook's ankles.
“Rook, I think he's planning an attack.”
“Don't be dramatic.”
“I'm serious. Look at his face. That's the face of a duck with nothing to lose.”
“It's a duck.”
