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Marcille is distracted—and distinctly, she remembers how Chilchuck would call her an airhead for it with that edge to his smirk—so she doesn’t notice Chilchuck leaning up and in until his lips brush her ear when she tilts her head.
“D’you think food poisoning’s still on the table?” Chilchuck whispers, but absolutely none of his words arrive in her head.
No, instead, all she can focus on is the feeling of his hot breath ghosting over the shell of her ear, the way his voice is a little hoarse when listening to it this closely. It makes a shiver go through her, makes her tighten her fingers around Ambrosia with a surprised yelp, makes her face go hot.
What the hell? Marcille thinks, head spinning, turning to face him, eyes wide. What the hell? For just one moment, I thought…
But it’s just Chilchuck next to her, arms folded behind his head, looking up at her with a nonchalant expression. Just regular old Chilchuck, with the round eyes and the hair that shines bronze and golden in the light.
It’s just Chilchuck. Even if for a moment, she thought he might be attractive, hitting her out of nowhere with his voice so close in her ear, but it’s just Chilchuck. Chilchuck, who, okay, she knows now is not a child but a grown man, Chilchuck who, okay, might have a nice voice and a nice face, too, now that she is looking at it, or something.
Marcille’s cheeks are burning. She pries her eyes off him and looks upfront, cursing at herself. Get a grip.
“Don’t do that,” she hisses, and she can feel his confused stare on the side of her face; making it flush even more.
“Do what?” he complains, but she’s already hurrying past him.