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the intrepid greta d. l. catchlove (minxery) wrote in valesco,

"Well—" Greta started, before her eyes fell on the extremely well-conforming, paint-splattered shirt he had donned. Holy Hecate, was he shirtless? He was. Good golly, she need to look away. A difficult feat when there were literally glowing signs persuading her otherwise. That was playing so unbelievably dirty, it went beyond mere cheating. She thanked her lucky stars that it was too dark to make out the definition she knew firsthand was there.

Her lucky stars were also thanked for it being too dark to properly tell if she was blushing, which she was. Armed and dangerous, had she really said that?

She was so embarrassing.

As to why she didn't just turn on her heel and leave once she saw him, she would tell anyone who asked (Ralph) that it was because she was in such a wonderful mood that she was feeling charitable. The taste of victory was still fresh, the party was fun, and his team was hosting the entire event. Not at least saying hello would be rude, wouldn't it? There were plenty of other people hiding and seeking, they wouldn't miss her for just a few moments.

"Don't believe me?" Greta asked, arching her own brow in what some, certainly not her, might have declared a challenge.