“I care about her.” He grabs my wandering, dramatic hand, and places it to his chest, right above his heart. “A lot, actually.”
I frown up, petulant, even though I can feel his heartbeat under my hand. “Do you care that I had to work painstakingly, reapplying consolidant after consolidant, to make sure a rib cage would stop flaking?”
“I do. Very much.” He grins, jerking his chin towards the fossils behind me. “Show me your work, then.”
His fingers slip down my forearm, slotting in alongside mine, and we walk around the exhibit, hand in hand, while I point out parts of the new collection, whispering in his ear about all the key steps in fossil preparation.
He nods, eyes on me, and a faint, amused smile sketched on his face.
Donors stop us. Him, mostly. But he always redirects the conversation to me.
We rush to talk over each other, actually, about all of the accomplishments and hard work of the other, and we say stupider and stupider things, secret smiles across groups of people when we raise our glasses.
“Ren knows her away around a fossil. Loves bones.” He winks at me from behind a champagne flute, and I have to cover a snort.
“Miller might be great in the infield, but you should see him on third base.” I wave a hand around and he has to turn, covering a cough that really sounds like a bark of surprised laughter.
And I wonder if this is what it’s actually like—to be on a team. For someone to hold you in the exact same regard that you hold them.
It’s a great night—my favourite date I’ve ever been on, and I think I could practice and practice and practice being me with Miller until we go extinct, too.
Until a meteor in the shape of Scott Saunders finally sees fit to crash-land and blanket everything in suffocating dust.
“Really?” He cocks a brow, one hand shoved into the pocket of his suit pants, the other holding a perspiring vodka tonic, when he finds us standing by the fern display.
“Can I help you?” I set my empty champagne flute on a passing tray and straighten my dress.
Miller tenses beside me, the lines of his throat pulling taut when his jaw works. He narrows his eyes on Scott, but he says nothing.
Scott scoffs. “I’m not sure I’m the one who needs help.”
Pinching my eyes closed, my hands flex in and out of fists, while Miller’s sweep up my spine, rolling all the vertebrae upright. “Usually, this would be the part where I ask you what that means, but to be honest, Scott, I’m not particularly interested in your scientific assessment of—”
“Miller!” Olson, his general manager, calls from across the room, cheeks flushed from the generous glass of scotch held in his hands. “Come here, I want you to meet someone.”
Miller raises a hand in acknowledgement, but his thumb presses between my shoulder blades.
I offer him a tight smile. “It’s fine, go. I’m fine.”
Scott stares at me, flat and disapproving. “He’s a twenty-seven-year-old who plays a sport for a job, Ren.”
“Yeah, guess I am. But don’t worry, I fuck like it too. Heard you were a little lacking in that department.” A muscle in Miller’s jaw ticks, and he stares at Scott, navy eyes devoid of any warmth before he turns to me, dragging a thumb across my cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
My heart skips funny at his words, but not in embarrassment. It’s something else I don’t really feel like letting Scott have. He doesn’t deserve any part of the way Miller makes me or my body feel. I smile again, softer this time. “Take your time. Don’t deprive your fans.”
He grins, easy, and doesn’t bother giving Scott a second look when he leaves, one hand lifted in the air to shouts and cheers from donors who’ve obviously had too much to drink.
I’d rather not give Scott a second look, either, but I turn to him, hissing, “What is wrong with you?”
He widens his eyes. “What’s wrong with me?”
“That is the question I asked, yes.” My voice feels like a barely contained shriek.
“Ren. Do you know what you look like right now? Parading around on the arm of—”
I press my fists together before flashing him a shaking hand. “Oh my god, you are so sad.”
He scoffs again, but I’m spared whatever sermon he was about to deliver on how I’m actually the sad, pathetic one thanks to Graham—who really has the fucking social skills of an ankylosaur and can’t read a room to save his life.
