The soft, musical sound of her voice snaps me out of my daze. “Yes, we will be keeping the kids very busy.” Her eyes jump around the room. “We have some butterflies that should be emergingnext week, so the kids will get to see that.” She wrings her hands over her thighs. “We have some sprouts to make a pollinator garden in front of the museum. And then a field trip on Thursday to Stafford’s Pond.”
Everyone’s attention moves to the paleontology director as he begins discussing their camp plans, but my focus stays on Millie. She fidgets with the pen in her lap and chews on her plump bottom lip.
My skin prickles as the sudden urge to say something ripples through me, and my brain loses control of my body. I lean toward her and allow myself a small inhale of the vanilla-and-lemon scent wafting from her hair before I whisper low in her ear, “Are you nervous?”
Millie yelps as she jumps a few inches out of her chair, and her head slams into my nose with a crunch.
Fuck.
I immediately cover my face and duck my chin to take a deep breath. My nose burns and throbs as I press my hand under it.
No blood, but I’m going to be sore.
When Millie turns her face toward me, her eyes are narrowed and her lips are pressed into a flat line. She mouths, “Asshole.”
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head.
Her brows snap together. If looks could kill, I would be a pile of bones at this point.
I narrow my eyes. “I meant—”
“Finn, did you have something to add?” Sharon’s question startles me as she glances between us like a principal who just caught her students smoking in the bathroom.
“No. Millie and I were discussing our camp plans.” I try to sound as convincing as possible, donning my best poker face.
“Oh, great. I would love to hear them.” Reva smiles encouragingly.
Well, shit. It’s the share-with-the-class that is every misbehaving student’s worst nightmare. I can confirm it still sucks at thirty-four.
As I search for something to contribute to the conversation, I glance at Millie and find her biting her lips like she’s trying to contain her laughter at my expense.
I want to laugh. It’s right there, the smile pushing against my cheeks to find the humor in our predicament. But I rein it back in with my signature frown instead.
I’ve avoided this woman for months because something about her sunshine-bright personality makes me want to turn the other way.
She’s glowing all the time, illuminating everything around her, and the blazing light feels like a third-degree sunburn for a man who has been in the dark for too long.
***
By the time I make it back to my office, I have two missed calls from my mother.
I reluctantly press her name on the screen and she picks up after the first ring.
“Finneas, it’s so nice of you to call me back.” Her voice has a bite to it that makes me roll my eyes. This conversation needs to end quickly if I have any chance of remaining pleasant.
“Well, I have a job.”
“Yes, I remember,” she brushes off. “Listen, will you be joining us for dinner Friday? I have sent a few invitations about the party we are hosting, and you haven’t responded. I need to give the caterers a count. It’s not polite to wait this long to reply.”
Polite.Does she even know the meaning of that word?
I would rather get a root canal than go to a fancy dinner party with my parents’ friends.
“We won’t be there, Mom. It’s not a good environment for us.” This tactic doesn’t usually work with her, but I keep trying anyway.
“Yes, son. I remember that yourtherapisttold you to setboundaries.” She says “therapist” and “boundaries” like they are mud stains tracked into her pristine house. “But you don’t need boundaries like that with me and your father. We are your parents, for crying out loud. I think the whole idea of someone telling you what to do is ridiculous.”
“A therapist does not tell me what to do.” A steady throb pounds through my skull. I remove my glasses, set them on my desk, and press my fingers between my brows. “We discuss what might help me move forward in life with the greatest level of mental health.”
