Chapter Text
It's September 1st, the day it officially becomes spooky season in my mind. And also, the first day I'm allowed to start decorating according to my long-standing pact with Prim. Though she loves Halloween as much as I do, she instituted this rule in high school when a neighbor saw my August display of shrunken heads and almost called the cops on us.
Every year we gorge ourselves on two months worth of ghoulish goodness, from haunted houses, to ghost tours in nearby towns, to my personal favorite– scary movie nights. I like slasher films like Friday the 13th and Scream. Prim can't stomach the stuff, which is funny since she's the nurse and skinned knees make me queasy. She likes the classics: Hocus Pocus, Nightmare Before Christmas, and the like. It’s good to have a mix so you don’t dull your senses.
And this year is going to be the best in a long time since it’s the first time Prim and I have lived in the same town for three years. THREE years. It’s been a nightmare being separated, but when Prim got this nursing job in Twelve Hollows, we knew she couldn’t turn it down. Here she has a chance to really make something for herself, to punch up instead of just scraping by like we were doing in the down-on-its-luck mining town where we grew up. I saved every penny from the two jobs I was working on top of going to community college part time to help her rally the security deposit and first month’s rent on her cozy little apartment nestled near a bakery on Main Street. The day I moved her in the whole street smelled like fresh bread. After years of being food insecure, it felt like some kind of divine sign that things were going to get better for us.
I uncurl myself from the armchair in my new rental house and stretch. It’s a nice little place on the edge of town near the woods and an easy commute to my gig at Paylor National Park. There’s just one other house across the way. Peace and quiet, just like I like it.
After pulling on my running shoes, I stop in front of the hall mirror to rebraid my long hair the color of bittersweet chocolate. The thickness is impossible to manage when it's not pulled back. I have a dark, olive complexion, large wide-set gray eyes, and a skinny frame. I'm not exactly pretty, but at least what I lack in curves I make up for in lean muscle, toughened by a life of tromping around in the forest.
The air outside is still warm, not quite tinged with that crisp chill I love, but it feels fresh. I get into my banged up car and sing along with the radio on my way to the big box stores on the other end of town. Twelve Hollows is much nicer than where Prim and I grew up in West Panem. It felt like everything there was covered in a layer of grime, a place forsaken by the greedy mining companies who exploited the earth and people alike, then turned tail and ran when the money dried up. Here in Twelve Hollows you can imagine a future.
I park in front of the Home Depot and spend the next ten minutes combing the aisles, stocking up on a few decorating necessities while keeping my sights set firmly on what I came here for. Then finally I see it. My white whale. It’s the 12-Foot-Tall Home Depot skeleton; every Halloween-lovers most sought-after lawn accouterment. I’ve been calling the store daily, waiting for it to come back in stock, and now it’s finally mine! I seize the box gleefully and am surprised at the resistance. I guess it’s even bigger than I expected. I give it a tremendous tug, but no luck. Is it stuck on something?
I crane my neck around and then I see him…there is a man attached to the other end of the box.
He looks to be about my age and has rather forgettable boy-next-door good looks–mop of ashy blonde curls, blue eyes, square jaw. But the thing I really notice is how he's broad from his chest, to his forearms, to his smile. It must be an evolutionary thing that scrawny women like me are attracted to hulking guys like him, right?...It's science. I can't be blamed. And besides, It's been months since my rebound guy, Darius. And then another year since I finally ended things with Gale, my on again off again–boyfriend? Hunting partner? Trauma-bonded childhood friend turned lover? So anyway, this is a normal biological response.
Though I can see the man, he clearly doesn't see five-foot me behind the giant box. He yanks at it again, the muscles in his forearms contracting.
I wrench it back aggressively and poke my head around the corner, my braid cracking like a whip. “Hey!” I yell.
The man looks startled and lets go. “Oh shit, sorry! I thought it was just stuck. Here, you have it.”
Oh God, a gentleman? How annoying. But I really want this damn skeleton, so I tug it possessively out of his grasp, giving him my best scowl to let him know that I'm taking what's rightfully mine and not what's chivalrously given.
“Hey, you look familiar, have we met?” he says. His voice is warm, inviting.
I snort. “Does that line actually work?”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “I don't know, does it?”
“No,” I snap.
The way he laughs, deep and resonant, makes me think that, in fact, this line does work for him, quite a lot. “Ok then, total stranger, who will remain so. Enjoy your Halloween.” He flashes me another easy smile and disappears down the aisle.
I wrestle the skeleton box and my other purchases to the check out and then make my way awkwardly out the door. My palms are getting sweaty in the unseasonably warm September sun, making it hard to keep a good grip on everything. I have just paused to readjust the load, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Need a hand?” The blonde man from the store has reappeared at my side.
“No,” I grunt, blowing a strand of hair that has escaped my braid out of my eyes. Then my other plastic shopping bag betrays me by breaking and spilling half a dozen glow-in-the-dark skulls onto the hot asphalt.
The man bends down and scoops them up, holding one aloft and saying soulfully, “Alas, poor Yorick.”
I scowl at him. So he passed sophomore English, big deal?
“Hamlet?” he tries jovially, but his grin falters under the sharp edge of my apparent ire.
“I know,” I say through gritted teeth.
The man changes tactics. “Look, I can tell you're strong enough to lift it,” he says sincerely, as if sensing that the knight in shining armor thing is not my jam. “But the size is working against you. You're a classic featherweight.”
“Huh?” I wonder vaguely, attempting to shift the box into a less awkward position.
“I used to wrestle. You would dominate the featherweight division, but it's really not fair to put you up against Mr. Big Bones here.”
I consider protesting further, but it actually is rather difficult to maneuver and also…I wouldn't mind seeing those thick arms in action. Without waiting for my response, he uses his knee to heft the box easily onto his shoulder, shifting the coterie of skulls to his other arm. “Which way?” he asks.
I guide him toward my shitty, silver hatchback and together we shove the box inside. Then the man dusts his hands together and gives me another smile. “Ok then, stranger. Have a good one!”
And now he's walking away like the kind of guy I'm always telling Prim I prefer. The kind that can take a hint when a woman says she's not interested. So why do I feel oddly disappointed seeing him walk to his own car and open the door. And also, why am I staring at his ass…
I groan and slam the car door as hard as I can.
— — —
Sunday is cleaning day, it always has been. After the mining accident, this was the one thing I could count on my mother for, that she would somehow–out of sheer force of habit—get out of bed and pick up a broom once a week. Sometimes the memory still makes me angry, but every year the wound feels less tender. In dealing with my own trauma, I also have to forgive her for hers.
I call Prim on speaker phone and we chat mindlessly about her day, the antics of one of her crotchety patients who's convinced she is trying to short him on his chocolate pudding allotment, and the prep work she's doing for the upcoming Harvest Festival with her new friend. She's mentioned this guy a couple times before, and at first I wondered if he was a new crush, but it doesn't sound like that. More like a big brother. I'm glad Prim is making friends.
I beg her to come over today after her shift to help me assemble the skeleton, but she says she'll be too tired after pulling a double the day before. I'm disappointed, but cheer up when she suggests we meet up for dinner later this week in the town square. After we hang up, I hear the first notes of The Beatles,’ Blackbird, play on Spotify and turn up the volume on my laptop.
Throwing open the windows to let in the fresh air, I sing along as I wipe down the kitchen counters. Fifteen years since his death, I'm finally finding joy in music again. I'm so caught up in the song that I hardly notice the insistent little taps on my front door.
Who could that be, I wonder? I know no one in town yet unless you count the old lady with the cheap soup truck where I sometimes buy my lunch. I throw open the door, prepared to be annoyed by a Jehovah’s Witness or a political door-knocker (I can tell from all the lawn signs that there's a local election going on).
But it's not either.
“Oh!” we exclaim simultaneously, our eyes widening. It's the above-average looking man who tried to steal my white whale.
“I knew it!” he laughs, clapping his hands together in glee. “I have seen you before.”
“What are you doing here?” I accuse, my surprise melting into alarm. Did he follow me home?
“I'm your neighbor!” He gestures toward the tidy, sage green craftsman next door.
“Oh,” I say again, with relief this time.
“I brought you these.” He shoves a Tupperware box into my hands. “Wow, I'm so glad it's you.”
“Why?” I ask suspiciously.
He looks bemused. “Isn't it obvious?”
I glare at him until his smile grows uncertain, then I drop my eyes to the Tupperware. I can't resist, I pop the corner and peak inside. A delicious aroma fills my nostrils. There are a dozen shiny buns inside with a crunchy looking shell of Asiago cheese on top.
I think the man takes courage from the involuntary change in my expression because he introduces himself. “I'm Peeta.”
“Katniss,” I return flatly.
“Katniss,” he repeats, letting my name roll around in his mouth. I swallow hard. There's something almost seductive about the way he says it. Or maybe it's just evolution talking again.
I look at his eager, open face and decide to take a chance. There's a sucker born every minute, and I need some free labor.
“Will you help me put it up?” I demand, kicking the skeleton box by my feet. I'm annoyed that I have to ask him, but it's really a two person job, and I don’t have anyone else besides Prim.
Peeta grins. “Bold, for a thief.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Will you do it, or not?”
“Of course, I will,” he says, looking too smug for my liking.
I scowl and open the door wider. He steps inside and looks around. My aesthetic can only be described as witchy. The furniture is draped in deep burgundy, emerald and amethyst upholstery and there are an assortment of thrifted apothecary bottles filled with dried herbs and wildflowers on the mantle. A set of Tarot cards is splayed across the coffee table that I made myself out of a gnarled fallen tree.
“Nice place.”
“It's just a rental,” I say self-consciously. I can tell from Peeta’s well-maintained yard and the little vegetable patch in the back that he definitely owns his own place.
“I mean your style. I like it.”
“Oh, thanks, I guess.”
We stare at each other and I suddenly feel self conscious of my appearance. I wasn't expecting a guest. In the last throes of September humidity, my thick braid seems to have expanded to twice its normal size. I'm wearing frayed jeans and an oversized West Panem forest service tee that I've lopped off at the middle to make it fit better. Peeta is too polite to look, but as we drag the skeleton box out the door and into the yard, I wince everytime I feel the shirt inch up, revealing the olive skin of my midriff.
Peeta jogs back over to his place to retrieve a ladder and then we get to work assembling. As the building progresses, I climb mid-way up the ladder, while Peeta holds the torso steady.
“Give me a bone,” I demand, holding out my hand for the next piece.
His lips quirk as he squints up at me. “At least take a guy to dinner first.”
Well, I guess I walked right into that one. I decide to scowl at him again until he looks properly cowed, while I attempt to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “The jokes write themselves.”
After we're finished, he runs a nervous hand through his mop of curls. “Um, you want to come over for a drink or something? I've got fresh apple cider.”
Damn him. It’s my favorite. But this afternoon has been mortifying enough, so I shake my head, hoping I don't come off as ungrateful.
He doesn't seem to mind, or maybe he's a little disappointed, but either way, he doesn't push it.
— — —
On Thursday I walk into town to meet Prim, and I’ve just rounded the corner to the downtown when a blur of dark blonde hair and knobbly elbows attacks me in a bear hug. “I missed you!” she cries, lifting me up a little off the ground. Somehow in her late teenage years Prim outgrew me and she now has me by at least four inches. She finally releases me and grabs the arm of the person behind her to present him.
“This is Peeta!” Prim threads her twiggy arm through his thick one and beams.
My jaw drops as I find myself unexpectedly face to face with my neighbor for the third time this week. And then surprise turns to anger. Is this asshole messing around with my little sister?!
“He's way too old for you!” I sputter looking wildly between Peeta and Prim.
“Ew, Katniss, no.” Prim pulls a face. “I mean Peeta's hot, but he's not even on TikTok. Practically edging on Boomer.”
“Heeeey, how old do you think I am?!” Peeta protests.
“Don't worry, silver fox. Lucky for you my gorgeous sister, Katniss here, is an ancient spinster.” Prim extracts her arm from Peeta’s and pushes him toward me with an impish grin.
“We've met,” I say flatly, crossing my arms defensively, still suspicious.
“Reaaally?” Prim looks delighted.
“Yes, and as you can see from her body language, I've made quite the impression,” Peeta grins, his eyes twinkling .
Prim snorts. “Don’t take it personally.”
“It's a shame we aren't friends though,” he continues, sighing with exaggerated drama. “Because I was planning to bring these by later…” Peeta holds up a white bakery bag and the aroma is impossible to mistake.
“Oh shit, cheese buns?” exclaims Prim. “Propose now, quick. This is your chance!”
Prim and Peeta both double over laughing and though my face is the color of a fire engine, I snatch the bag from him. I'm embarrassed, not stupid.
I gnaw on a cheese bun and try not to look too annoyed as they chatter excitedly about the upcoming Harvest Festival. It's a little easier with the sharp tang of Asiago and herbs bursting on my tongue. I allow myself a surreptitious look at Peeta and realize that maybe I was wrong about his boy-next-door good looks being forgettable. The thought unnerves me.
Prim invites Peeta to join us for dinner, so there's no way to shake him now. We start making our way down Main Street, and to my annoyance, it’s as if we’re walking in a parade. It seems like everyone and their mother is coming out of the woodwork to greet us, drawn to Peeta like he’s a fluorescent light bulb and they’re winged insects unable to resist the glow. Peeta insists on introducing me brightly to everyone we meet, pulling me into his orbit whether I like it or not.
There is the grocer who pops out of his shop to show Peeta the fresh herbs he just got in. Peeta puts the sage to his nose and inhales deeply, sighing with satisfaction and purchasing a large bundle. Then there’s the gangly teenager that apparently Peeta coaches at football in his freetime. Then a saucy old lady who insists she needs Peeta to help her cross the road, but looks at us triumphantly over her shoulder and gives us an exaggerated wink as she squeezes his bicep.
And then, just as we’re rounding the corner into the town square, a bubbly blonde with cornflower blue eyes accosts us.
“Peeta!” she squeals, giving him a hug. “And Prim! Hi.” The woman adjusts the stack of tagboard signs in her arms and beams at us. Then she notices me, sulking behind Prim, hoping not to be observed. “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new here?” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer before sticking her hand out to shake. “I’m Delly Cartright, it’s nice to meet you. Here! For you.” Delly shoves one of the signs into my hands.
Peeta looks uncomfortable. “Nah, Delly. She doesn’t want that…”
I flip over the sign curiously. Peeta Mellark for Council. It says in bold white lettering against a navy background. There is a small white bird, a lark I guess, taking wing off the double “Ls.” And below, it says: Bake Tomorrow Better.
“I came up with the slogan,” Delly tells me excitedly. “Don’t you love it!”
“Umm,” is all I can manage.
Prim jumps in to explain. “Peeta’s a city council member. The youngest in…well, maybe forever. This will be his second term and Delly here is putting lawn signs everywhere, but he’s basically unopposed. Now you’ve seen his fan club. Would you want to run against him?”
I don't answer the rhetorical question, but I do take another look at Peeta, noticing the way the tips of his ears have gone red and he is avoiding eye contact. Delly hands out another sign to a passing middle-aged woman with a baby on her hip and a shy-looking 10-year-old trailing behind. I smile at the kid to let her know that it may be a world of extroverts, but we're in this together.
“Hi, Mrs. K,” says Peeta, looking glad for a distraction from the discussion about his political career. The baby shrieks and reaches out for him.
He looks at the mother. “May I?”
The woman nods warmly, passing over the child who is straining out of her arms in an effort to slobber all over Peeta. The pudgy baby smooshes himself against Peeta’s broad chest and smashes a soggy graham cracker into his forehead. Peeta laughs in a deep, contagious way and pulls a face that makes the baby giggle hysterically. When Peeta hands the kid back a few minutes later, I notice he has a smudge of graham cracker down the front of his gray henley.
Then Peeta turns to the little girl and signs something to her that makes her come out of her shell. She signs back enthusiastically, her facial expression animated. They go back and forth a couple times before waving goodbye, and the family shuffles off.
“You know ASL?” I ask, trying not to sound too impressed.
Peeta shrugs and tells a self-deprecating story about how he tried several foreign languages over the years and was awful at all of them. Apparently when he studied abroad in Madrid his sophomore year of college–something I can’t even imagine having the funds to do–he kept telling everyone he was pregnant when he really meant that he was embarrassed by how bad his Spanish was.
“But then I discovered ASL and it stuck. It’s more interpretive, like painting with words.”
I must look skeptical because Peeta goes on to explain. “Like take the word “cute” for example. If I were talking about Mrs. K’s baby back there, I would sign it like this.” He folds down his pinky and ring finger and sticks out his thumb, then brushes his pointer and middle fingers lightly against his chin. “Cute. See?”
I nod, interested in spite of myself.
“But then, if I were going to say it to you, I would do it differently. Like this.” He repeats the gesture but tilts his head toward me, raising his eyebrows and giving me a flirtatious little smirk. “Cute.”
My breath catches and I flush to the roots of my hair. Prim cackles.
Peeta grins cheekily. “Ok, now you try saying it back to me. And don’t forget the body language.”
I shove him instead and he and Prim erupt into another round of uproarious laughter. I don’t like the way these two are ganging up on me. How has Peeta stolen away the allegiance of my only sister so easily?
They are still chortling when we sit down at the splintery picnic table outside Greasy Sae’s soup truck and order the mystery special. Growing up poor, Prim and I will eat anything, but Peeta pokes around in the thick broth with his spoon for a while before taking a small, suspicious bite. He looks pleasantly surprised when the savory flavor hits his tongue and digs back in with greater confidence.
After we finish eating, I hug Prim goodbye. She hugs Peeta, too, and I try not to wish it were me. Dangerous thoughts. Thoughts that I don’t have time to properly dispel because, seeing as we’re neighbors, I’m stuck walking side by side with the subject of my consternation all the way home
Peeta doesn’t seem to understand the concept of companionable silence. He cocks his head at me. “I didn't know Prim was your sister. She's brilliant.”
“I'm aware,” I say more coldly than I had planned.
Peeta's eyebrows knit together in concern. “There's really nothing going on with us. I'm not a cradle robber, I swear,” he says earnestly.
I sigh. “I know, Peeta. Prim can't keep her mouth shut for five minutes when she's into someone new.” I pause, wondering whether I want to go here, but I can't stop myself from blundering on. “She has talked about you though. Her new friend who's so funny and kind and cares so much about the town. Didn't realize it was you…”
“Oh,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, which has turned red. “That's nice of her to say.”
I wonder why he doesn't gloat more about this revelation. In my experience do-gooders like him love to be praised for their magnanimousness.
Instead he says, “Well Prim talks about you all the time. I–I almost feel like I know you. And not just as a skeleton thief now.”
My skin prickles. Oh God, what has Prim told him about me? I mean, I'm sure she never anticipated that we would end up neighbors, but still, the idea that Peeta Mellark has a window into the most private places of my heart through Prim is unsettling.
I clear my throat. “Oh. Um, well we're close. But she's a people person so…she probably also waxed poetic about Greasy Sae and her questionable stews.” We glance over to where Sae is wiping down her grimy food truck and give her a little wave.
“I mean, true, but…the way Prim tells it, I'd say you rate quite a bit higher than that.”
“Prim sees everyone through rose colored glasses. That's why she's more pleasant to be around than me,” I scoff.
Peeta frowns. “Why did you follow a compliment for Prim with a dig at yourself?”
I open and close my mouth apoplectically. How dare he psychoanalyze me!
“Why do you pretend to know me when you don't?” I snap.
“Sorry,” he says hurriedly. “I didn't mean–” He runs a nervous hand through his hair, and even through my anger, I can’t help but recognize it as a rather endearing habit of his. “It doesn't matter what I meant. I shouldn't have said that. You're right, I don't know you.”
Argh, why does he have to apologize so well? It makes it much harder to be mad. And so does the little pout of his lips when he's looking contrite…I shake my head vigorously to clear it.
“It's fine,” I sigh.
Peeta tests his luck. “But um…you could let me.”
“Let you what?”
“Get to know you. I mean we are neighbors and all,” he reasons.
“No, thank you,” I say automatically, then kick myself when I see the way his face falls. It's like I've kicked a puppy. “Sorry, God, I'm such a bitch.” Peeta hasn't really done anything wrong, and frankly…he's right about the way I put myself down. If self-flagellation were an Olympic sport, I'd be a gold medalist.
“Definitely not,” assures Peeta, his lips turning up at the corners hopefully. “Look, I came on strong. Can we just…start over?
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Ok.”
“Just easy stuff, alright? Like… I'm Peeta Mellark. My favorite color is orange. And as demonstrated, I need to work on boundaries.”
A half smile tugs insistently at my lips and I can't stop it, so I play along. “I'm Katniss Everdeen. My favorite color is green. And I suck at making friends.”
Peeta sticks his hand out and I shake it, my stomach swooping uncomfortably at the contact. I really hope it's a sign of soup-induced gastric distress and not, well… not something else.
“Nice to meet you, Katniss Everdeen,” he says, flashing me such a sincere smile that I begin to sweat. Shit. Yeah, this is worse than food poisoning. Much worse.
I have a crush on Peeta Mellark.
— — —
And so obviously...I spend the next week avoiding Peeta like a hornet's nest. Only it's not that easy considering how the hornet himself suddenly seems to be everywhere. He's out gardening when I stumble out to get my mail at the ass crack of dawn. Behind me in the line at the library checking out a book on French patisserie. And most annoying of all, taking up all Prim's free time preparing for the Harvest Festival.
At least work is keeping me pretty busy. I'm determined to make a good impression on the head ranger, Haymitch Abernathy. Right now this is just a seasonal gig and well–I shiver as a little breeze that hints of autumn blows through the trees– the season's almost up. I'm sick of moving around chasing jobs that allow me to use my degree in Environmental Science, and the fact that this one is here in Twelve Hollows near Prim is the icing on the cake.
I just wish Ranger Abernathy were a little easier to please. Or maybe that I was a little more palatable. Sucking up is really not my strong suit. But I’m going to try today, because my terrifying co-worker Enobaria, who has tattoos that look like snake skin and teeth that are just a bit too pointy to be natural, has been assigned Junior Ranger duty.
I sidle up to her as we clock in. “Hey, Enobaria.”
“Move,” she says, hip checking me out of the way to punch her card first.
I clench my fists. I’m supposed to be the prickly one around here and I really don’t appreciate being usurped, but I really need this job, so instead I say, “Wanna swap Junior Ranger for trail maintenance.”
Enobaria narrows her eyes. “Nobody likes Junior Ranger duty. “What’s in it for you?”
“Nothing. I mean, I just pulled a hamstring running the other day. Don’t want to push it.”
She considers for no more than a second. “Fine. Enjoy, pipsqueak.”
— — —
It takes about ten minutes to get all the squirrelly 6 to 11-year-olds settled on the long brown benches under a canopy of maple trees. The leaves are just starting to turn, the vibrant reds, yellows and oranges starting at the veins and creeping outward.
Appropriately, today's lesson is about trees and how they change with the seasons. I pass around a box and have the kids each select a fallen leaf, then they have to go on a scavenger hunt to find the tree it belongs to and correctly report back both the common and scientific name to receive their Junior Ranger badges. I'm actually pretty good with kids because I don't coddle them. Kids hate it when adults treat them like idiots, and as a kid who had to grow up fast, I know this better than most.
Feeling energized and good at my job, I wrap up the lesson and shoo the kids off to find their parents. The shrieking kids disperse, comparing their badges excitedly, while I scoop the excess ones back into a Smokey Bear bucket. Just then a resonant baritone pipes up from the back, “Do I get one?”
I start, my gray eyes slamming unexpectedly into Peeta’s blue ones. He smiles broadly. He's wearing dark gray hiking pants and a lightweight long-sleeved technical tee that clings to the muscles in his stocky shoulders.
I roll my eyes. “Not unless you can accurately name five trees native to West Panem.” I put my hands on my hips, wishing the standard issue Parks Department khakis were a little more flattering and then immediately chastising myself for caring. “And then tell me why you're stalking me.”
“Stalking? Can't a guy enjoy a walk in the woods?”
“Well maybe a guy can, but no one else will. You'll scare away the wildlife the way you clomp around,” I snarl.
As if to prove my point, Peeta stomps over with his heavy tread and pulls an insulated lunch box out of his backpack. “Thought you might be hungry. Prim mentioned you never take your lunch break.”
“I'll bet she did,” I say under my breath, but my traitor stomach rumbles, and Peeta looks triumphant. I reluctantly gesture for him to follow me to the staff area behind the Visitor’s Center.
We sit down at a picnic table and he starts pulling out a delectable looking spread. There are juicy red grapes, homemade dill pickles, kettle chips, and sandwiches on thick marbled rye filled with tart green apple, brie, spicy honey and alfalfa sprouts. I'm literally licking my lips at the sight of it.
The screen door at the back of the Visitor’s Center slams open and Ranger Abernathy stumbles outside, blinking in the sunlight. “Damn paperwork,” he mutters, then spots me at the table and comes over. “Never rise up the ranks, kid. Remember this. They'll tie you to a desk until you can't remember what the outside looks like.” He cracks his back in a way that sounds painful. “Thanks for taking Enobaria's shift on the Junior Rangers, by the way,” he grunts. “She scares the damn kids. Last time one of them pissed themselves, and there ain't no badge for that.”
“Happy to help, sir,” I say, pleased that my strategy has worked.
Just then Haymitch notices Peeta and freezes. “Interesting company you keep, Everdeen.”
I shoot Peeta a quizzical look. The two of them are glaring daggers at each other.
“Well, if it isn't Twelve Hollow's second best gourd farmer,” Peeta drawls.
“You shut your mouth, boy, or I'll show you where you can stuff your precious squash.”
“Don’t worry, I brought lunch for you, too,” says Peeta with a cheeky grin, holding out a sandwich as a peace offering.
Haymitch examines the proffered meal suspiciously and turns to me. “He spit in it?”
I hold up my hands. “I'm staying out of this.”
“Wise. I knew you had sense, girl.” Haymitch’s appetite finally wins out and he snatches the sandwich out of Peeta's hands, lurching off toward one of the trail heads with his characteristic weaving gait.
“And don't forget to take your meds!” calls Peeta after him.
Haymitch just flips him the bird without turning around.
“What was that?” I laugh.
“That is my nemesis.”
“You have a nemesis.” I lean back from the picnic table, putting my feet up on the opposite bench next to Peeta. Between my full belly and the warm early-autumn sun, I'm feeling relaxed, happy even. And I’m curious, too. Though Peeta claims he and my boss are enemies, there’s something about their interaction that tells me they have a deeper bond than that.
“Of course,” he says grandly, popping a grape into his mouth. “Every superhero has one.”
“Yeah? And what's your superpower?”
“My giant pumpkins.”
I let out a snort. Whatever I was expecting, it certainly wasn't that. “You should probably get that looked at.”
“Was that a joke?” he shoots back gleefully, eyebrows raised.
Oh Jesus, I'm flirting. I'm definitely flirting.
“Well, Haymitch kind of hates me, too,” I admit. “But I'm surprised anyone has it out for you.”
“Are you complimenting me Katniss Everdeen?” He pretends to bat his eyelashes, which I realize are impossibly long.
I flush. Dammit.
Peeta grins cheekily, but doesn't press his luck. Instead he says, “Listen, you know that ratty Nalagene Haymitch is always carrying around?” I wrinkle my nose and nod. That bottle looks like it hasn't been cleaned since 1982. “That's not water in there, if you know what I mean.” He rifles in the front pocket of his backpack and pulls out a business card. “Here, show this to Ripper down at the distillery. The one down by the lake? She'll hook you up.”
I look at the business card. Peeta Mellark, Head Pastry Chef, Mellark's Bakery.
“Wait a second, you're a baker?” I say incredulously. I guess I should have put it together by now. His city council slogan suddenly makes a lot more sense.
“Really, you didn't know?” He shakes his head with a bemused grin. “I'm not exactly a man of mystery. I have a baked good in my hand pretty much every time I see you. I work at Mellark’s, on Main Street. You know it?”
I nod. “Yeah, been there a few times.” I try to play it off casually, but I'm salivating at the memory of the almond croissant I got just last week. “Never saw you though.”
“Nah, I'm mostly in the back. I do the cakes. Plus, I'm no good at the register with these sausage fingers.” He waggles his digits at me and I try desperately not to think of what those thick fingers might be better at… “Though, if I knew the clientele we were attracting,” continues Peeta, looking pointedly at me. “I might have risked it.”
I blush profusely in response, while Peeta gazes steadily at me with those electric blue eyes. I think he's enjoying making me flustered.
“Anyway, bakery's been in the family for four generations if you can believe it. My brother Bannock finally took over for dad.”
I tuck Peeta's card carefully into the breast pocket of my uniform and toss the wax paper from my sandwich into the trash can. “Well, I guess I better get back to work,” I say, a little regretfully.
“Yeah, me too.” Peeta agrees, standing up and stretching, the thin material of his shirt pulling across his broad chest. “Sure was nice seeing you again, Katniss.”
There are explosions going off in the pit of my stomach, but all I can manage is a thin smile. He gives me a little wave and starts trudging towards the parking lot with those loud, heavy footsteps.
I hesitate, then call after him. “Peeta?”
He turns back hopefully. “Yeah?”
“Thank you for lunch.”
I’m rewarded with a pair of dimples and his dancing eyes.
It's official. I’m a goner.