“Oh, I work for an agricultural bioengineering company,” Ophelia said.
Tiffany’s eyes glazed over with boredom as she nodded, gaze drifting back to Logan.
“She makes flowers glow,” he shouted, leaning over her shoulder.
Everyone at the table tittered with laughter at that. She bit her bottom lip until she tasted iron.
Keep smiling.
“Come on, baby, sit down,” Logan said, guiding her into the round booth. “I know your feet must hurt from standing all day.”
She blew out a sigh as the attention shifted away from her, and she obediently slid into the booth, relieved that she was going to be pressed between Laura and Logan and not one of the others. If she could have faded to complete invisibility, she would have done it in a heartbeat. She didn’t thrive underattention; it all felt like scrutiny to her, no matter how innocently it started.
Laura gave her an encouraging smile and slid a bubbling pink drink to her, winking knowingly. “For courage.”
Laura was the only one who seemed to pick up on her discomfort in a courteous way, the only one who didn’t appear inconvenienced by it. The others, when they remembered she was there at all, were annoyed by her attempts to fit in. She fingered the stem of the glass and glanced around the table.
These were all Logan’s friends, mostly coworkers he’d met at Automata Industries. They were high-powered career professionals, climbing their way through the ranks of one of the most successful, exclusive, and cut-throat companies on the eastern seaboard.
Automata was the progenitor of all android technology. If it wasn’t Automata, it was a pale imitation. They’d brought the first domestic bots to market decades ago, followed by combat units—super soldiers—and eventually spawned an entire market of niche, purpose-built androids that were nearly indistinguishable from humans. Nearly. They were all too beautiful by a mile, too perfect even in their imperfections, and of course, they were required by law to wear the starched, white uniform that denoted their identity code whenever they were in public spaces.
One of them was dancing on a pole nearby, wearing nothing but neon paint over her nipples and groin. Her thighs parted as she dipped in a squat, revealing her hairless mons. Someone had smeared glitter over her in a suggestive trail down to the shadow between her labia. Her designation glowed blue on her chest, though Ophelia couldn’t read it at this distance. The bot’s neon green eyes met hers from beneath glitter-coated lashes. She sucked her teeth and beckoned to Ophelia.
“You into that?” Logan purred in her ear, following her gaze.
She blushed, quickly looking away. “O-of course not.”
Brandon slung an arm over the back of the seat, eying her knowingly. “You know we were part of the work on that one,” he said, gesturing toward the dancing android. “The coding team. She’s very… responsive.”
His eyes flicked over her in a strange way that made her want to pinch the neck of her blouse shut. She wasn’t used to heated gazes like that; nothing about her demeanor or her attire invited flirtation. Sure, she got cat-called by the weirdos on the street like everyone else, but mostly Logan’s friends treated her like she had the sex appeal of a standing lamp and they couldn’t quite understand why someone like Logan—handsome, extroverted, and successful—would want her.
Not that I know, either.
“That’s nice,” she said tightly, pressing closer to Logan.
“No, it is not,” Laura shot back. “It is gross.”
Ophelia couldn’t help the grin that stole over her.
“Oh, don’t listen to Laura,” Logan said, his breath fanning over the curve of her ear. “She’s apruuuude.”
“Fucking right.” Laura lifted her glass in a toast to the accusation. She downed her drink and then shuddered. “God, that’s way too sweet. Do they even put liquor in this crap?”
Ophelia drank deeply of her own unidentifiable pink drink, closing her eyes and trying to ignore the strange way Brandon was leering at her. The liquid was tart enough to make her eyes water, but she gulped it down anyway, chasing that small headrush that would make her less focused on everything she was getting wrong.
“Easy, tiger,” Logan teased, taking the empty glass from her hands and setting it back on the tray. “I’m too tipsy to carry you all the way home.”
He rubbed his leg absent-mindedly, and she knew that was the real reason he worried. A hit-and-run had crushed all thebones in his left leg a year before they’d met, and the titanium replacements caused him pain. It would be a struggle for him to take her weight if he needed to—even as little as leaning on him.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured. “I’ll make it back just fine.”
He blew out a sigh of relief.
Smiling, she leaned in to press a kiss over his lips. He tasted like brown sugar and liquor. Drawing back, she studied his handsome, familiar face.
Strong brows over hazel eyes, chiseled features framed by honey-blond hair. His good looks had reeled her in at that job fair two years ago; he’d appeared devastatingly like every handsome young man she’d ever crushed on in a blockbuster movie.
Then she’d gotten to know him, sure he would lose interest as men often did with her, only to find he had a near-infinite well of patience for her quirks and oddities.
