Page 33 of The Diamond Thief
“Oh.” He seems taken aback. “That explains how you got into the Den.”
Interesting. Possibly I’ve just given him cause for concern. If he is not old-Den, a legacy, and I am, this might just be the upper hand I need to stay out of his clutches.
The silence between us stretches long. Birds chirp and hop about, invigorated by the fall air. In the distance a kid shouts to his father. Probably hikers on the trail.
“I’ve always enjoyed fall,” he says, and now we’re back to the cat-and-mouse. “How are you on pumpkin spice?”
“Overrated,” I say, and he laughs.
“And ubiquitous.”
“Ridiculously ubiquitous. You can’t walk into a store without tripping over something new that has been ruined by nutmeg and allspice.”
“Is that what it’s made of?” he asks. His head tilts, and my eyes catch on his lips.
“Among other things.”
“Well, I’m glad we at least have derision of the pumpkin spice takeover in common.”
I’m shocked for the third time in the last half hour to find I’m grinning with complete abandon, right at my enemy.
