“Is Archie whinging about gettin’ up early again?”
Archie threw his gaze to Barrel as the man approached. “I’m not whinging. I have work to do.”
“I’m onto you.” Owen pointed a crooked finger at his teammate, then grimaced as he waved an insect away from his face. “You’re trying to get out of here to avoid having fun. You’re getting dull in your old age.”
“Old age? I’m barely twenty-six.”
“You complained about your knees the whole way here.”
“And,” Barrel cut in, “you talk about the weather constantly.”
Archie balked. “I grew up on a farm. What do you expect?”
“Old. Man.” Owen enunciated each word by pounding his cane on the floor. He put his empty glass on the bar and motioned for the footman to refill it. The insect he’d waved away earlier,a bee, continued to circle him, apparently detecting something sweet about the bitter old codger. “Slow reflexes. Soon you’ll be doddering along the sidelines, waxing poetic about the good ol’ days.”
Perhaps he had been dull recently, although he couldn’t entirely blame it on work. The transformation from a farmer’s son to a stodgy man of the law had happened so gradually, he didn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed an evening with his friends, the thrill of flirting with and pursuing a woman. His unfinished tasks flooded his thoughts, poisoned his dreams. But he was a stubborn bastard, and the good-natured ribbing from his friends only stoked the fire in his belly, the desire to prove everyone wrong.
The bee landed next to Owen’s now empty glass, and Archie shot his hand out, tipped the glass over, and trapped the bee inside. “Slow reflexes, eh?”
Barrel and Owen leaned back with approving looks, and Archie gave a smug nod. “I may be dull, but I’ll have a better time tonight than the lot of you—”
“Excuse me.”
Archie turned toward the muted voice, one he likely wouldn’t have heard had he been a mere inch further away. He hadn’t noticed the woman herself when she’d approached, a realization that irritated him for some unidentifiable reason. But if he was being kind to himself, nothing about her was particularly noticeable. A severe knot of light-brown hair clung to her nape above the starched collar of her shirtwaist. Her brows, dark slashes on her pale face, furrowed together over wide amber-green eyes with thickchestnut lashes, framed by fine lines at the creases. A long, straight nose over parted lips, a pointed chin. Individual components that were entirely forgettable, but undeniably captivating as a whole.
Her attention darted between Archie and the captive bee. Although she was of average height, everything about her carriage seemed small, as though she was not only trying to occupy as little space as possible, but that she didn’t know how to make herself larger. And yet, she’d approached a stranger.
“Hello,” he managed as he twisted to face her, ignoring Barrel and Owen’s low chuckles behind him.
Her eyes narrowed further as she nodded towards the upturned glass. “Were you going t-t-to kill it?”
“Of course not.” He’d absolutely planned to kill it. But suddenly that plan of action seemed untenable.
Her features softened, though she fluttered her fingers at her waist. Despite the heat building in the room, she wore cream leather gloves. “Then may I t-take it off your hands?” When he tilted his head quizzically, a flush bloomed high on her cheeks. “It’s an ashy mining b-bee, and I’m unsure why it came inside.”
“Maybe it wanted a drink?” Archie cut in with a wink. He wondered about her stammer, if she always spoke with it, or if there was something unsettling about Archie’s presence.
She paused with her lips parted, stared at him for a long moment.
Perhaps she wasn’t the joking type.
“May I t-t-take it outside?” she finished, already looking put out with him.
Lord, he wasout of practice as a flirt. While in their brief interaction she had spoken more words than he, Archie was certain to overtake her when given the chance.
Ifshe gave him the chance, something he inexplicably wanted her to do. “Of course, yes. What do you need?”
Barrel leaned in. “I know what Archie needs—” Archie bolted his elbow back and caught Barrel in the gut, cutting off his remark. Owen barely swallowed his laugh.
“D-do you have any p-paper?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the bee.
He flattened his hands against his pockets—a broken pencil, a length of twine, an interesting rock he wanted to give his sister—and finally found a scrap of stationary where he’d jotted down a list of repairs his mother’s farmhouse needed before the winter. “Will this work?”
The woman nodded as she took the slip of paper between her fingertips and lifted the edge of the crystal glass a hairsbreadth. Even Barrel and Owen leaned in, enraptured by her delicate, patient movements. Soft words, indistinguishable in the room’s din, fell from her lips as she advanced the paper, nudging the stout, furry bee onto its surface. Once it had settled, she slid the glass, along with the paper and bee, forward onto her palm, her gloved hand.
She gave him a brief nod. “Thank you.”
Before he could form words, she’d maneuvered past them, rushing for the French doors that led to the terrace.
