“Well, I remember you saying something about your brother trying to set you up as soon as you got back to the Arborium,” she says. “So whatisyour type? Let’s get you married off.”
I should not answer this question.
“Smart,” I say.
“Nice, go on.”
“Kind.”
Iris sips her mead. “Mmmmhm.”
“Blonde.”
I’m drunk.
Oh Yrsa help me, I’m drunk.
Iris’s smile drops, her eyes going wide.
Then she bursts out laughing.
I try to laugh along with her, taking a big,bigswig of my mead. I’m not drunk, I’m just a fool in love.
Iris tilts her head, still grinning. “Blonde, huh?” she teases. “I guess that explains why you didn’t seem interested in that Ka’rethi woman who was making eyes at you back on Earth. Dark hair—wrong flavor.”
I make a sound that Ihopecomes across as nonchalant, but judging by the way she’s still looking at me, I’ve probably failed miserably. I take another big sip of my mead, avoiding her gaze.
“Oh no,” she says, eyes bright. “Are we making you shy, Garrik? Big, tough warrior beekeeper, embarrassed to talk about girls?”
I set my glass down, clearing my throat. “I just don’t see why my type is relevant.”
“Because it’sfun, obviously,” she says, resting her chin in her palm. “And because I haven’t seen you in months, and I need to catch up onallthe gossip. I mean, come on—you’ve been home for six months and you haven’t eventrieddating?”
“I’ve been busy,” I say weakly.
Iris snorts. “Oh yes, tending to your bees, collecting honey, living in peaceful harmony with nature—sotime-consuming.”
She’s teasing me, but she hasno ideahow real the struggle is. The last thing I need is my well-meaning siblings trying to set me up when I’m already completely,utterlyin love with the one person I can’t have.
I rub the back of my neck, desperate to change the subject. “You seem pretty interested in my love life, librarian. What about yours?”
Her smile falters, just a fraction. She picks at the edge of her glass. “What about it?”
I narrow my eyes. “Haveyoubeen seeing anyone?”
She exhales through her nose, shaking her head. “Nope.”
The answer comes too quick. Too final.
I tilt my head. “No one at all?”
“Not really in the mood to date,” she says, swirling her drink. “I mean, I just got here—still settling in, still figuring things out.”
I can’t stop myself from reading into it—that simple statement makes my stupid, desperate heart pound. I take a slow sip of my mead, trying to keep my face neutral.
Just because she hasn’t found somebody else she wants doesn’t mean she wants you.
Iris takes another sip of her mead, rolling the glass between her fingers. “Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to start dating here. It’s not like I have time to go out and flirt when I’m up to my ears in old books. I mean, sure, the occasional scholar flirts with me, but it’s always something like, ‘Ah, Iris, your lexical analysis of pre-Convergence texts is positively scintillating,’and I just–” She pauses. “That’s not a compliment, that’s a book review.”
