“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“I’d know if I were making things up, Garrik,” she insists. “I’m a librarian. My whole thing is facts.”
I stare at her for a moment.
Then, without breaking eye contact, I reach over and gently push her empty glass away from her.
She gasps. “Hey! Give that back!”
“No.”
“Garrik!” She slaps at my hand, which does nothing. Then she flails dramatically in place, nearly knocking over a candle.
I grab it before she does.
Her eyes widen. “Oh. That would’ve been bad.”
I sigh. “Yes. Very.”
She hums, tapping a finger against the table like she’s contemplating a Very Serious Thought.
Then, suddenly, her face lights up.
“Wait—Garrik.”
I brace myself. “What?”
She leans in, too close, eyes a little unfocused, a little too bright.
“Do you think you could pick me up with one hand?”
I blink. “What.”
“No, really,” she insists. “You’re huge. I mean, look at these things.” She grabs my wrist, tugging at my arm with both hands, as if I don’t know how large it is.
I let out a strangled cough. “Iris?—”
“I bet you could.”
I try to take a sip of my drink, but she is still holding my wrist.
She tilts her head, considering me.
Then her eyes narrow mischievously.
“Are you seeing anyone?” she asks.
I huff. “None of your business.”
“Come on, Garrik; you’re finally footloose and fancy free, back home on M’mir…and you’re not even trying to date?”
Of course I’m not.
None of the women in the Arborium are small, stubborn brilliant, with the most delicious scent and golden curls the same color as Aurelian honey.
None of them are Iris.
