That, I can do.
Using the tweezers, I grab the first quill as close to his skin as possible.
“I saw the list of potential spokespeople the ad agency sent over when I was sorting your email,” I say, looking up to meet his eyes. “Have you decided who you’re going to hire yet?”
“No. I’m still trying to—”
I yank the quill straight out.
Miles lets out an impressive string of curses, but he doesn’t move, and before he’s even finished, I’ve removed a second quill.
“If I were you, I’d steer clear of the Hollywood crowd this time around. They’re too dramatic.”
“You don’t say?” The ghost of a smile appears on his lips. “Who would you recommend?”
I reposition the tweezers. “The baseball player.”
“Really?” He frowns, but he only flinches when I pull the third quill. “He was my last choice.”
“He’s sexy, charismatic, and has that whole ‘aww shucks’ demeanor people associate with honesty.” I grab the fourth quill and pull. “If you want a believable endorsement, he’s your guy.”
“I don’t know. Do people even care about baseball anymore?”
Clearly the man has never seen a sexy ball player meme.
“Think about it.” I remove the fifth quill. “The possibilities for clever copy playing on speed are endless.”
“You might be onto something.” He flinches again as I pluck the sixth and final quill from his leg. “The agency might even come up with some other analogies, too.”
“All done.” I set about cleaning the skin. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Easy for you to say.” Miles drains his beer. “Next time we decide to go walking in the woods, maybe I’ll let you take the lead.”
I snort. “Do you even know how to follow?”
He grins, shoulders relaxing. “It’s a skill I’m sure I could learn, given proper motivation.”
Somehow I doubt it.
Then again, he’s made a concerted effort to manage his own schedule and email the last few days. And just yesterday, I caught him poring over the step-by-step instructions I created for his next assistant.
Baby steps.
I bandage his ankle, and as I’m cleaning up the mess, he squeezes my shoulder. “Thank you. For getting them out and for distracting me.”
“Don’t mention it. It was my fault you got stuck. If I hadn’t plowed into you, you probably would’ve avoided the experience altogether.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But I appreciate it nonetheless. How’d you get so good at first aid, anyway? Last I checked, it’s not a requirement for business school.”
“Definitely not. I learned from my mother.” Warmth fills my chest as I remember her gentle hands. “I had a lot of scraped knees as a kid. She got so good at patching me up that sometimes she was finished before I even realized she’d started.”
“She sounds amazing. You’re very lucky.”
There’s a wistfulness in his voice that catches me off guard. Is he thinking of his own mom? Not Mama Hart but his biological mother. He’s never spoken of her before. My curiosity is piqued, but I can’t bring myself to pry, so I change the subject.
I hold up a single quill. “Do you want to save this for posterity?”
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
