“Maybe about ten minutes or so.”
And so we waited until our bread was finished. As I slid my loaf from the pike that I’d cooked it on and set it aside, Indigo tore a chunk of his straight from his stick and popped it into his mouth.
My eyes widened. “Careful! That might be—”
“Hot!” He hissed, his eyes immediately watering and cheeks bulging. “Damn, that’s hot.”
I burst out laughing as he tried to deal with the temperature without spitting the bread out.
“Here.” Having mercy, I handed him a ladle full of water, which he gratefully accepted.
Mouth still stuffed full, he muffled out his thanks and drank eagerly.
I started to chuckle just as a voice from behind us said, “Well, isn’t this cozy.”
Jumping, I spun around to realize Melaina had returned. She had paused, poised at the edge of the camp, watching us curiously. Eyebrows perking up as her gaze met mine, she smirked as if she’d interrupted us mid-sex or something.
“Quilla’s teaching me how to make bread,” Indigo answered easily, finally having swallowed down his first bite. “It’s amazing.”
As he turned back to twist another strip around the stick, Melaina blinked at me. “You’re cooking? Together? How utterly domestic.”
“Fuck you,” I mouthed to her.
She smirked and blew me a kiss.
“Want me to cook you a loaf?” Indigo asked Melaina, completely missing the byplay.
Brightening, she nodded. “Hell yes. Serve me, pretty boy. I’m famished.” She plopped herself languidly onto my bedroll and gave a long, satisfied groan as she stretched. “Lordy, that dip in the hot springs was nice, though. I had to finger myself to orgasm twice before leaving the water.”
Indigo choked on air and quickly cleared his throat, moving past her inappropriateness. “So whatever happened to the gingerbread man?” he asked, turning pointedly to me. “Did he ever get caught?”
“Gingerbread man?” Melaina lifted her head from the bedding. “Telling the High Clifter children’s stories now, are you?” She pointed at Indigo. “And, no. No one could ever catch the gingerbread man. He was too fast.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Don’t believe her. The sly fox tricked him by offering him a ride across a wide river on his tail, then on his back, and finally on his nose, where the fox ended up flipping him into his mouth and eating him whole.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely, then pointed at me. “See. Didn’t I tell you it was possible to outthink anyone, even if they were faster than you?”
“No.” Melaina sniffed acerbically. “The moral of the story is to never trust the sly foxes of the world.”
“Because they’ll outwit you at your own game,” Indigo shot back with a smirk before he glanced between the two of us. “Are there a lot of stories like this on Earth? That one was absolutely fascinating.”
“Oh, hundreds,” Melaina answered. “Thousands. Quilla…” She snapped her fingers at me. “Tell him your favorite fantasy about the princess, Butterworth, or whatever her idiot name was, and her handsome lover, Westbrook.”
“Buttercup,” I said dryly. “Her name was Buttercup. And his name was Westley.”
“Whatever. Just tell him that one.” Glancing toward Indigo, she added, “This was always her favorite.”
“Was it?” He focused on me so intently, my insides warmed about ten degrees.
And so, I was forced to recount the story of the princess who was kidnapped by the Sicilian, the giant, and the master swordsman, only to be saved by her one true love so they could live happily ever after, riding off into the sunset together.
Indigo grinned knowingly as I finished. “So you do believe in true love, after all? Interesting.”
“It was a fairy tale,” I muttered lamely. “And I was a kid. Besides, my favorite parts were the fight scenes and stupid humor. Not the tacky romance.”
Lifting his eyebrows, because he had to be able to feel the lie bleeding off me, he placed a hand against his chest and said, “My lady, but I am a great warrior who’s superb at fighting and chock-full of stupid humor.”
“No,” Melaina countered. “You’re just chock-full of stupid.”
He frowned her way, only to turn back to me and lean closer, whispering, “I bet you find me humorous, don’t you? I mean, who else would try to convince you a soldier’s horse should be called a knight mare?”
I shook my head, unable to answer. Because, yeah, there was something slightly entertaining about him. And it was becoming addictive.
Grinning at me, as if he knew I didn’t want to admit such a thing aloud and appear weak and soft, he leaned away