Miller Colson-Burke likes pretty girls.
Be careful. He’s only good at three things. And none of those things are you.
The other thing Scott said pops into my head, too. The one I’ve tried not to think about because it was none of my business, and certainly none of his.
And if the press is to be believed, getting his cousin killed.
“Pretty sounds right.” Miller brings the glass to the precipice of his bottom lip, and he gives a wry shrug. “But I don’t think she was the one who spilled. Heard that was someone else.”
More champagne bubbles burn when I empty this glass, too, and there’s something to be said for that idea of liquid courage, because I turn to Scott and give him a flat look. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Ren.” Scott’s eyes cut to the empty flute in my hand, my fingers slackening around the stem when his words slice through whatever confidence and courage that, fueled by champagne, made me feel like I could stand tall. “That’s two in less than ten minutes.”
“I can count,” I mutter, embarrassment scorching across my cheeks. Shifting back and forth on my heels, I watch where the hem of my dress meets the tile of the atrium floor.
Being able to have two glasses of champagne in as many minutes as you’d like feels like an adult thing to do. But I don’t feel like an adult. I don’t feel like an established, thirty-two-year-old woman who could rhyme off the catalogue number of every fossil in this room and give you the unique preservation requirements for every single one, down to the decimal point on the thermostat for the necessary temperature control.
I feel the way I’ve felt for years. The way he made me.
The way I let him make me.
Small. Insignificant. Unworthy.
“Think she can have as many drinks as she wants.” I watch Miller’s jaw tense out of the corner of my eye, and he gives another errant shrug of a singular shoulder when he says, “She’s a big girl.”
The words place a firm hand on the small of my back and whisper, “Stand up straight.”
I try, but Scott keeps talking.
“That she is. But champagne goes right to her head.” Scott finally extracts one of his hands from his suit pants, and he taps a finger against his temple before flashing a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. It doesn’t even try, actually. The corners of his mouth barely flick up. “Well, far be it from me to keep two newfriendsfrom enjoying each other’s company.”
He doesn’t wait for either of us to say anything. He turns on his heel, his hand finds his pocket again. He tries to disappear into the crowd, but he doesn’t get very far before Graham pulls him away, introducing one of the most promising young minds in the field to the most important museum patrons.
“Sorry—” I start, at the same time Miller scrubs a hand across his face, stifling a scoff.
“Jesus. He fucking—”
“Sucks?” I finish for him with a wet laugh.
His mouth tips into a lopsided grin and he nods through a swallow of champagne. “Yeah. Sucks works.”
“One of the many adjectives you could use to describe Scott,” I say, taking a sip of my third glass of champagne while I try to straighten my shoulders so I can stand like an adult again.
“Do you ...” he trails off, displeasure flaring in the deep blue of his eyes. “Work with him a lot?”
I snort. “Unfortunately. We go ... way back. And he’s new here, and by reporting rules and technicality, he is, in theory, my supervisor.”
“In theory,” Miller repeats in an amusement that feels kind instead of cruel. “Is that something adults do? Theorize? You have a lot of those? Theories?”
“Sure.” I nod, and I think some of my petals stretch towards the sunlight of his voice. “We could talk about the Alvarez hypothesis.”
Full lips dip down, and he gives a slow shake of his head. “No idea what that is.”
“Or there’s the less popular but competing theory that the Deccan Traps eruptions were to blame for the K-Pg mass event.” Shrugging, I tap the flute against my bottom lip. “But that sort of went out the window a few years ago.”
Tiny lines dig in around his eyes when his mouth curves into a smile. A wave of hair crests over his forehead. “Don’t know that one either.”
“The Cretaceous-Paleogene extinction event,” I tell him from behind the curved glass.
