“You can leave that.”
“What? No.”
A small pause.
Then the corner of his mouth moved almost imperceptibly.
“You’re not attending a meeting.”
I clicked the pen once. “I’m observing.”
His eyes flicked from the pen back to me. “You’re on vacation.”
“That remains unproven.”
The engine ticked as it cooled. Somewhere deeper in the trees a bird released a long, rising whistle that echoed through the clearing.
Nick pushed off the hood, but he didn’t step back. He waited until I was within a foot of him. His arm braced across the door frame, forcing me to duck under it.
Close enough to count his pulse.
“Ride’s ready.”
“I gathered.”
He opened the passenger door without comment. I climbed in and gripped my notebook, the only thing in the jeep that wasn’t Nick.
Nick walked around the hood and slid behind the wheel. The engine turned over with a quiet, confident rumble. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as he eased the jeep onto the narrow dirt track that wound away from the suites.
For several minutes neither of us spoke. A cool morning breeze moved easily through the open frame. The air carried dust and hot soil, dry grass baking in the sun, and the faint resin spice of Tamboti. The light sharpened, turning the veld into millions of pale needles, each blade catching the rising sun.
Ahead, the track curved between two stands of thorn trees.
Nick slowed.
Two shapes broke the tree line, impossibly tall and moving with a synchronized, slow-motion arrogance that made the rest of the landscape look disorganized. They stepped into the open, long legs lifting through the buffel grass while their necks drifted above the Acacia canopy.
I opened my notebook.
Nick glanced sideways.
“No.”
I wrote anyway.
Anatomy: Highly inefficient. Evolution clearly prioritized aesthetics over center of gravity.
“Height estimate,” I murmured quietly. “Approximately fifteen to eighteen feet. Scanning for a lead. Social structure still opaque.”
Nick shifted from the canopy to my notebook, his jaw tightening just enough to signal he wasn't going to give me the tour-guide script.
“They’re eating fucking leaves.”
I didn’t blink. If he expected a flinch or a polite cough, he had the wrong woman. I held his eyes, the tip of my pen resting against the paper like a challenge. “I’ve seen smaller egos move more weight. My money is on the one with the longer neck.”
One of the giraffes bent its neck in a slow, looping curve to strip foliage from the top of a tree. The other stood several yards away, head tilted slightly as if monitoring the horizon.
He’s a sentry, the posture familiar—the same one the interns use when they’re trying to look busy while I’m in the room.
