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The grin that Mrs. Robbins gives me is way too delighted at our exchange, though I decide to forgive her when she passes over the cash for the pies, the pretty nice tip I’d hoped for, and an extra ten to ‘my adorable helper’.
I thank her, pointedly ignoring the way she cocks her head in Vincent’s direction, then shoots me a not-so-discreet thumbs up before stalking away with her bag full of pies.
I wait until she’s out of earshot before turning to him. “Boyfriend?”
He reaches up to adjust the black ‘cat ears’ headband he stole from me before we left the shop. “Would you have preferred ‘mate’?”
I sputter. “What? No.”
“That’s why I said ‘boyfriend’,” Vincent remarks sagely. “I remember that about mortals. ‘Boyfriend’ seems like something they’ll understand.”
“You could’ve just said I was your friend.”
His expression goes blank. “Why would I lie to the woman? She may have chosen her costume poorly, but she doesn’t deserve that.”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
This is what arguing with him is like. He doesn’t even have to make sense to somehow make me feel like I am the unreasonable one.
It’s not worth it. Especially not when he only has less than eight hours left until midnight…
“Come on,” I mutter.
He falls into step beside me. “Where are we going?”
“Anywhere that sells something fried. And just for that little stunt, Vincent, I’m using your part of the tip to pay for it.”
“It would be my honor to feed my mate.” A small pause. “Just make sure to get me something, too.”
And, damn it, I giggle.
Looking back, that’s when I should’ve realized I’m in trouble—and maybe I did. It doesn’t matter.
It wouldn’t have changed anything anyway, I’m absolutely sure of that.
“Let’s go.”
This is not a date.
I remind myself of that when Vincent urges me to drink a cup of hot cider that he just so happens to have another ten to buy for me. I remind myself again when we split a bag of apple cider donuts because he wants to try one, then eats four while I laughingly wipe the crumbs from his cheek with the side of my thumb. I remind myself when we stop at the pumpkin-carving contest and he points out one that’s supposed to be a witch. He whispers that it looks like Bonnie, forcing me to drag him away before the witch somehow senses that she’s being insulted from two blocks away.
It definitely isn’t a date when we reach the little petting zoo set up near the end of Main and I spend five minutes trying to convince Vincent to pet one of the adorable goats.
He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want to. It’s a beast.”
“You spend most of your time as something similar,” I remind him. “What does that make you?”
“A regal feline. I groom myself. That thing smells terrible.”
“That’s rich.” I lower my voice. “Coming from someone who used a litter box only yesterday.”
Vincent scoffs. “At least I buried mine.”
I just about choke on the last of my cider.
Vincent looks smug as he takes the paper cup out of my hand before I can spill it, and while I’m still coughing and laughing at the same time, he drinks the last gulp.
“Hey. That’s mine.”
