“I’ve never shenaniganed before.” She frowns when I snort.
“Did you make it a verb?”
This is going to be so much fun, especially when she learns that not every shenanigan is outrageous. Sometimes it’s about taking something mundane and adding a bit oflife. I figured we could start out small, a decision I’m glad I made, considering her jumpy nature.
No way she would take trespassing well if she’s ready to flee the hotel lobby.
“So, what are we getting into? Skydiving? Tattoos? Crocodile wrangling?”
The squeak in her voice increases with every outlandish suggestion. What on earth does she think I do on a regular basis? Half the time I’m in LA, I don’t even leave my house. Part of me loves that she thinks I’m this adventurous rake of a man rather than my less-than-impressive reality.
I hoist the tote bag and blanket in my hands for her to see. “Croc wrangling is a level two shenanigan. I thought we would start at level one.”
“We’re kidnapping someone?”
That stuns me into silence. “W-what? How did you get there?”
She pauses, raising her chin. “Tote bag to cover the head. Blanket to wrap the body.”
“Jesus, okay. Well, no. I have no plans for kidnap, murder, or any other criminal activities.”
Sofía lets out a deep exhale. “Thank goodness. I think I could pull it off, though, if I had to.”
Shaking my head, I step out into the warm evening air. Rapid footsteps slap against the pavement as she follows with that damn bag and its seashell pouch hanging off her shoulder, haunting me with every passing second.
I try not to glare at it like it has personally wronged me.
“I don’t doubt it for a second,” I finally say, ripping my gaze away from her shoulder. “But even if you were caught, how would you survive without your red-light mask?”
“Exactly,” she exclaims. “My skincare routine would be a night—you’re teasing me.”
“Me? Never.” I place my palm over my heart. “Your skincare is serious business.”
She shoves my arm, and I fake a stumble. Her laughter is soft, but the flush of her cheeks is not from the sun. We walk in silence down the sidewalk of the small beach town, tourists and backpackers milling around us.
I stop in front of Woolworths.
“Here we are.”
“This is a grocery store.”
“Yep.”
“This is the shenanigan? Going to the store? I do this all the time.”
“Ah. That’s where you’re wrong.” I click my tongue. She glares at me, and it sends a thrill down my spine. “This isn’t any shopping trip. You have to create theperfectthree-course meal. An appetizer, entrée, and dessert. We each have ten minutes to shop before meeting at the checkout. The person with the best dinner wins.”
Excitement shines in her bright eyes. “And the loser?”
“They have to share their deepest, darkest secret.”
Her hand darts out and shakes mine. “Deal.”
I start a timer, and she sprints away, not pausing while she calls out over her shoulder, “I hope you enjoy the taste of losing!”
Competitive Sofía might be my favorite version.
While she runs through the store—I spot her zipping around with a box of pizza Shapes—I find the hot-food counter and order a massive container of mac and cheese. I move on to the dessert section and grab a chocolate mud cake. For an appetizer, I make a wild choice and get honey soy chicken chips.
