Wren looks unfairly good for someone who’s spent all day on his feet too. He’s leaning against the counter waiting for me, sleeves rolled to his elbows, white hair falling into his eyes. There’s powdered sugar on one side of his black shirt and he doesn’t seem to know it’s there. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care. Either way, I’m staring.
Wren catches me and smirks. “See something you like?” He pushes off the counter and comes over, hooking a finger into the front of my apron. “You ready?”
I blink at him. “Ready for what?”
“You didn’t forget our date,” he pouts.
“Of course not,” I say quickly. “I didn’t forget.”
Wren narrows his eyes.
“I forgot what time it was,” I admit.
Wick looks up from wiping down trays. “Get out of here, both of you. I’m not paying either of you to make eyes at each other after closing.”
Wren laughs and grabs my hand before I can say anything else. “Come on, griffin.”
He drags me out the back door before Wick can throw a towel at him.
The evening air is warm, the kind of summer night that makes the whole town feel slower. Probably because we’re all breathing through soup air. It’s still early and people are starting to prep for the Summer Festival. Strings of lights are being hung between storefronts, and someone’s testing music in the square. We pass a pair of witches arguing over flower arrangements and one of the local vampires carrying what looks like six folding chairs by himself.
Wren keeps my hand in his as we walk, swinging our joined hands a little like he can’t help himself.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“If I tell you, it ruins the mystery.”
“I don’t trust mystery.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.” Wren grins at me.
“It’s a survival skill.”
I let him tug me another block before I figure it out.
“The food trucks?” I ask.
Wren turns to me with a smile. “It sounded fun.”
The town started bringing in food trucks for festival week last year, and apparently they’re back. The park near the square is lined with them. Lights glow in the dusk, people milling around with paper trays and drinks in hand. It smells like grilled meat, fried dough, garlic, sugar, and summer.
Wren immediately pulls me toward a truck selling loaded fries with magic.
“I thought this was a date,” I say.
“It is. We’re romancing each other with grease.”
He orders a basket piled high with cheese, herbs, and some kind of spicy sauce. He grabs a fry and moans around the bite.
“That’s my fry,” I tell him.
“Itwasyour fry,” he corrects.
We split the fries, then a pair of stuffed hand pies from another truck, and finally a funnel cake dusted in enough powdered sugar coat us both. Wren gets it all over his mouth within thirty seconds.
“Hold still,” I tell him.
He does, surprisingly, and I swipe my thumb across the corner of his mouth.
