As we were about to cross the road, Davin suddenly grabbed my wrist and held me back a moment; a car peeled out of the driveway and roared past us. “Geez,” I gasped, and then, glancing at him curiously, I added, “Thanks.” He didn’t say anything, but slowly released my wrist. Before he completely withdrew, I took his hand and interlaced my fingers through his. He looked at me, his lips parted in surprise, but then he smiled shyly and gave my hand a squeeze as we kept walking. It gave me a feeling of nervous flutters in the best way. As we walked up to the doors, Jill and Laurel came bursting out the exit.
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Oh, it was 1775.” “What?” “1775. The Battle of Bunker Hill.” “Oh.” I laughed. “We learned about it the day we met,” he added. “Another red-letter day in history.
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No weapon in my bag? No problem—my whole bag was a weapon. Grabbing it by the strap again, I swung it off my shoulder and through the air toward my assailant with as much force as I could muster.
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Who are you?” he asked, in a bewildered tone. I cocked my head at him, totally baffled. “I told you. Anna Fisher. And I happen to be starving, so let’s go.” I tugged at his arm and led him back in line.
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Nice slippers,” Davin grinned. They were green and furry. “Thanks.” I shrugged and looked him over, half expecting to see a new injury. “So what’s up?” He had one hand behind his back.
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For someone who wrote a novel with a superhero named “Dark Lightning,” you wouldn’t think a thunderstorm would make me so nervous.
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I suddenly felt the way Cinderella might have felt if she hadn’t had that convenient midnight curfew: my feet were hurting, my hair was slipping free from its pins, and my makeup was getting all smudged from sweat. I was unbelievably tired, undeniably depressed, and I just wanted charming.
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