““Wha—what was that?” Heather lifted a brow. “What was that 'hey bro, make sure the blond chick doesn’t cut any body parts off' look? Because I’ll have you know, I’m an expert with butcher knives.” Tristan pointed at the weapon in Heather’s hand. “That’s a machete.” Puckering her lips, Heather looked at the blade. “Aren’t they the same thing?” “I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just say that. Everybody ready?””
