“Is that also an adult thing to do?” I ask, eyes on her as I set my empty whisky glass down on a passing tray, never looking away.
The blush burns deeper.
“Sure.” Her teeth come down on her bottom lip. “Adults give friendly hugs.”
“Alright then. It’s nice to see you, Ren.” The sleeves of my jacket pull tight against my shoulders when I open my arms.
Her fingers flex before her hands knot together and she gives a jerky shake of her head.
Another snort disguised as a laugh catches in her throat, but she lifts her arms, and they wind under mine, her hands skating lightly across the back of my jacket like she’s afraid to squeeze too tight.
Her head fits into the crook of my neck when she does, and my hands freeze, suspended above the bare skin of her shoulders, afraid of something too.
My chin brushes the crown of her head, her hair probably softer than the silk of her dress, and I swallow heavy when my fingers meet the bow hanging down her back.
We both go still at the same time, hands hovering but not really touching. I feel her breath stutter, chest pressed against mine.
I might have just woken up, but I don’t ever really remember a hug feeling quite like this.
There’s no real time to consider it, though, because she pulls away with a start when a voice sounds from beside us.
“Well, well. Isn’t this cute?”
Ren
Scott rocks forward on his polished black Oxfords, hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants. One wave of hair sits perfectly in the middle of his forehead, brushing the rim of his glasses, and the average passerby might think he looks amused.
But I don’t miss the muscle ticking in his cheek.
“Scott.” Making a show of straightening the skirt of my dress, I roll out my shoulders and the phantom tugs from Miller’s fingertips on the silk bow hanging down my back. I flash a bland smile that’s meant to be polite but really just feels like I’m clenching my teeth. “I hope you’re having a nice evening.”
A waiter weaves through the crowd, a tray of champagne sparkling in flutes held between two hands, and they’ve barely lifted it up in offering before I’ve snatched one and practically tipped it upside down against my mouth to finish the drink.
The bubbles burn the back of my throat, and my stupid, clenched, all-teeth smile stays in place when I exchange the empty flute for a new one.
“Thank you.” My voice rises to an alarming pitch.
I’m blinking too much. The eyelash clusters Imani painstakingly applied before we got here making each mechanical movement slower and more exaggerated than usual.
Miller clears his throat, brows coming together when his eyes swing back and forth between Scott and me. He reaches out, the sleeves of his tux shifting against the back of his forearms, not quite meeting the bottom of the inked M on his hand.
The back of his hand tenses when his fingers wrap around the stem of a glass, spanning the entire length. His thumb brushes the curved edge of the crystal and I wonder what it would feel like dragging between my shoulder blades, if he’d actually touched me during whatever that friendly adult hug was.
Swallowing, I tear my eyes away from Miller’s hand and try to ignore the glint of superiority hardly hidden behind Scott’s stupid, pretentious glasses.
“Scott.” I wave the glass between them. “This is Miller.”
“I know,” Scott says, voice clipped. One of his brows rises when he assesses Miller with the same sort of appraisal I’ve seen him use on countless fossils. On me. The left corner of his mouth twitches, and I know he finds whatever he sees to be lacking. “Rough week.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but Miller’s fingers tense against the glass, and he nods along with a tight smile.
“Miller, this is Dr. Scott Saunders. He’s the new assistant curator of vertebrate paleontology.” My tongue has difficulty working around the words. I don’t bother waving the glass again, flicking my spare hand towards Scott instead so I can take a drink.
“Fancy,” Miller offers flatly.
Scott rocks forward on his feet again, thinly veiled amusement laced with cruelty carving across the planes of his face. “We can’t all spend our days on a field, rescuing pretty girls when they spill on themselves.”
He drags out the wordpretty, all heavy with double meaning, and his eyes cut to me.
