I slide into the passenger seat of the rental car, cradling my delicious goodies and shut the door. I open the bag of sugary sweet pâte de fruits and gleefully grab a piece from inside the bag, feeling like a child who has just been given the keys to Willy Wonka’s factory. I go to take a bite when I hear the sound of frustrated, heavy nose-breathing coming from my left and glance over at Silas, whose brows are dipped in a harsh V-shape as he glares out the windshield like he’s about to go to war with the protective glass screen of the car.
“What’s your problem?” I ask.
“You went out to get snacks? Seriously? We’re meant to be staking this booth out waiting for this alleged assassin to show up, and you tell me you need to go to the bathroom only to come back with French sweets,” he spits
