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My mouth parts as the clerk’s eyes widen. Edward places the hat back upon the shelf and strolls past me toward the door.

This infuriating flesh bag!

I try not to storm after him to catch up with him outside.

“Lover’s quarrel?” I hiss.

He does not slow. “It seemed the simplest explanation.”

“We are not lovers.” My words taste like venom on my tongue.

“No.” The word lands too quickly. I hate that it stings, it burns more than my deceitful lie I muttered.

He moves through the market like smoke, weaving between baskets of apples, bundles of flowers, hanging herbs, and vendors calling out their prices. I stay beside him because I am smaller, quicker, and significantly more motivated by spite.

“You stopped coming to brunch,” I say.

“I have been busy.” He brushes off his shoulder while continuing to walk away from me, the cobblestones echoing with each step.

“You stopped writing.” I fight the urge to throw something at him.

“I had nothing to say.” He shrugs his shoulders, and my blood begins to boil.

“You leave rooms when I enter them.”

“That is called walking.”

“That is called fleeing!” I’m nearly shouting now, and more townsfolk in our path are sneaking glances. He picks up an apple from a nearby stall, examines it, then sets it down. “You seem determined to create drama where none exists.”

I take the apple and toss it lightly at his chest. He catches it on instinct. A mistake.

His eyes flick down to the fruit, then back to me, slightly baffled. “Did you just throw produce at me?”

“Answer the question,” I demand.

“I do not recall hearing one.” His ignorance is grinding my nerves.

“Why are you avoiding me?” A simple question I extend, yet he deflects each word.

Edward places the apple back with exaggerated care. “I am not.”

I take a small sugared plum from a display and throw it. It strikes his waistcoat. The vendor gasps. Edward looks down at the faint mark on his coat.

Slowly, his gaze lifts. “Olive.”

“Edward,” I challenge.

He reaches for a bit of bread from a nearby sample tray. “Do not,” I order.

He throws it and it hits my shoulder and I stare at him. He looks almost pleased with himself. The bastard.

The next three minutes become an undignified skirmish involving sugared fruit, a piece of cheese, and one unfortunate roll that misses Edward entirely and strikes a passing man’s hat. By the time we escape the farmer’s stalls, I am flushed with irritation, and Edward’s mouth keeps twitching as though he is fighting a smile.

Good. Let him fight something.

We cut through a narrow side street, then another, the market noise fading behind us. I do not realize he has led us to the far side of town until the buildings grow older and the windows darker. He stops inside an abandoned office, all dust, broken shelves, and a single desk left to rot beneath a cracked ceiling.

“Enough,” he says.