“So fuckin’ busy. Sausage and peppers are gonezo. Almost sold outta dogs, too,” the burly vendor standing behind the food cart replied in a thick Boston accent.Pepperscame outpep-pahs.Fuckin’ wasfah-kin.Dogssounded likedahgs. “But I’ve got plenty of brats and footlongs left. You want your usual?”
Cade nodded, then glanced down at me. The sunlight streamed all around him, a golden halo. He was still holding my hand. I’d stopped trying to yank it out of his grip several minutes ago when I realized I stood exactly zero chance of success. And then there was the fact that, without his hold, I’d almost certainly have lost him in the dense crowd.
The throngs of people thickened with each passing hour. As sunset approached, more and more costumed revelers flooded into the city, eager to partake in the Haunted Happenings. By the time we cleared Essex Street, turning onto a narrow side-way, I was clinging to Cade’s hand like a life-ring in a riptide, trying not to be trampled by ghosts, ghouls, monsters, and mummies.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing,” I said immediately. “I’m not hungry.”
“Liar.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, annoyed. Mostly because Iwashungry. The hot dogs smelled delicious. Plus, they were sold with those deep-fried braided pretzel buns that elevated the experience from street grub to gourmet dining.
“Fine. I’ll just take a regular hot dog with mustard.”
Cade’s eyes did the crinkly-amused thing as he turned to face Hank. “She’ll have a footlong.”
“Just a regular is fine,” I protested.
Hank’s eyes shifted from me to Cade, brows high on his head.
“Footlong,” Cade repeated firmly. “Mustard.”
With a nod, Hank got to work.
I sighed.
Deeply.
Cade chuckled at the sound. “Oh, come on, Goldie. You can’t blame me for trying to put a little meat on those bones. You look like you’re about to blow away in the next gust of wind.”
“Don’t worry. Even if I do, you’re holding my hand so tight, I’ll just fly around your head like some weird human-shaped kite.”
Chuckling again, he finally released my hand in order to accept his food — a truly ginormous bratwurst loaded with all the fixings. Relish, sauerkraut, onions, mustard, and ketchup. It was piled so high, it tested the structural integrity of its small cardboard container. While Hank got to work on my foot long, I unzipped my backpack and began rooting around the bottom.
“What are you looking for?” Cade asked, grabbing about a million napkins from the silver dispenser.
“My wallet.”
“Don’t bother.”
I glanced up at him. “You aren’t paying for me.”
“Goldie, it’s a hot dog.”
“Technically, it’s a footlong.”
“I can still afford it,” he said wryly. “You want five courses at a Michelin starred steakhouse… We’ll have to dip into Socks’ tennis ball budget, but I can probably still swing it.”
The look in his eyes told me I was not going to win this particular battle. I held up my hands in surrender and he grinned as I re-zipped my bag.
It was a good grin.
“Here you go, little lady.”
I might’ve objected to Hank calling melittle ladyif he weren’t currently handing me the most delicious culinary creation I’d ever seen in my life. It was longer than my arm and, with the braided pretzel bun, nearly as thick. My mouth instantly filled with saliva as I took it from him, resisting the urge to sink my teeth in like a total street urchin.
“Thanks, Hank.” Cade held out some cash, but the vendor waved him off.