Chapter 70

“This is ridiculous,” Rosalie huffed.

Zoey considered Rosalie’s canvas. A lurid display of blues, greens, and spots of reds and oranges—the flowers scattering the park—splayed out on the white sheet, brought to life by Rosalie’s fingers. Zoey made a show of inspecting the piece, turning head side to side and humming in deep consideration, like a critic appraising a fine painting for merit, deciding whether it deserved to be hung at a gallery.

“Well,” Zoey said, nodding firmly. “I think a toddler might have done better. It’s abysmal.”

Rosalie glared at her, but she didn’t defend herself. Even prickly and competitive as she was, she couldn’t deny the catastrophe she’d created. She did, however, settle for returning the insult. “And yours is much better? Is that supposed to be a cloud?”

Zoey looked at her own portrait, pursing her lips. It was a horrendous painting, even accounting for how she’d drawn it with finger paint, and her total lack of artistic background. But worse than Rosalie’s? Well ... she wasn’t sure. It was a stiff competition.

“We’ll call it a draw.”

Rosalie huffed, again—the hundredth time of the past twenty minutes. She’d been making the noise constantly while painting. They’d been keeping their respective canvases hidden, but hearing Rosalie’s frequent noises of displeasure, Zoey had known what to expect. Or, partially. Because could anyone be prepared for that?

“We might not have made art,” Zoey said sagely. “But we accomplished something much more important, and that’s all that matters.”

“And that is?” Rosalie asked. She eyed Zoey. She knew something was coming.

“The impossible. We found a way to make you pout.” She tapped Rosalie’s nose, leaving a smudge of green. “You don’t like being bad at things. It’s cute.”

Rosalie wrinkled her nose, going cross-eyed as she glared down at the mark Zoey had left, then turning it back toward her. How she had managed a cross-eyed glare ... well, her pouting blonde teammate was capable of all kinds of incredible feats.

Just not artistic ones.

Rosalie glanced away, blushing. Zoey realized she’d been grinning a bit too dopily her way, and for too long. Zoey also cleared her throat and looked away.

“You’re sure it’ll wash out?” Rosalie asked. She picked at her apron—Zoey had provided them to protect their outfits—and craned around to assess the damage. “It helped, but I still got some on me.”

“That’s what they told us. Washes out. Should be fine.” It was a nice dress Rosalie was wearing. It’d be a shame if the stray paint had stained it.

Zoey took one more glance at Rosalie’s painting, laughed—which earned another glare—then collapsed backwards into the picnic blanket, stretching her arms wide. She closed her eyes. Her muscles really were so sore. Things had been nonstop go, go, go ever since she’d been thrown between worlds.

A moment later, she opened her eyes. The sky was turning dark, proper evening approaching. In her peripheral, she caught sight of the enormous tree trunk towering into the sky. It’d been out of her vision for a bit, and she’d almost forgotten she was in a flying park, thousands of feet in the air. Seriously, so weird.

“So,” Zoey said, turning to look at Rosalie, who quickly glanced away, looking guilty. That made Zoey pause, then grin. She ignored the telling reaction ... that Rosalie must have been studying Zoey while she was sprawled out. “I was thinking ice cream, like I said. You saved space?”

“I could go for dessert.”

“Perfect.” Zoey stretched one more time, then rolled to a sitting position. “Let’s get cleaned up, then head there.”

“Plain vanilla?” Zoey asked, aghast. “You never cheat on your diet, and you get plain vanilla when you do?”

“What?” Rosalie asked defensively. “It tastes good.”

“So do the other flavors. And ... you didn’t even get toppings!”

“Toppings distract. Less is more. I wouldn’t expect you to get that.”

Zoey paused, then a mischievous smile slid across her face. The set-up had been way too perfect. “Yeah, I wouldn’t. I’m more of a ‘more is more’ girl. I thought you liked that about me.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

It took Rosalie a second to understand the innuendo. Her eyes dipped down, then back up, and she looked at Zoey like she was something unpleasant she’d stepped in—before shaking her head and settling into the small, elevated round table by the window. Using a spoon, she scooped out a bite of her ice cream and ate it.

Zoey sat across from her and likewise took a bite. She, unlike her date for the night, had made the trip to the ice cream parlor worth her time. She had laden her three scoops of varying flavors high with toppings and sugar-drizzles of various sorts—caramel, syrups, whatever they had on hand. Zoey wouldn’t say she had a sweet tooth, per se, but when the opportunity arrived, she went for it. Anything worth indulging in, in her opinion, was worth over-indulging in.