Chapter 2 #2
“You’re making things up now,” I mutter, eyeing her suspiciously over my drink.
Her grin is devastatingly smug.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“I’d know if I were making things up, Garrik,” she insists. “I’m a librarian. My whole thing is facts.”
I stare at her for a moment.
Then, without breaking eye contact, I reach over and gently push her empty glass away from her.
She gasps. “Hey! Give that back!”
“No.”
“Garrik!” She slaps at my hand, which does nothing. Then she flails dramatically in place, nearly knocking over a candle.
I grab it before she does.
Her eyes widen. “Oh. That would’ve been bad.”
I sigh. “Yes. Very.”
She hums, tapping a finger against the table like she’s contemplating a Very Serious Thought.
Then, suddenly, her face lights up.
“Wait—Garrik.”
I brace myself. “What?”
She leans in, too close, eyes a little unfocused, a little too bright.
“Do you think you could pick me up with one hand?”
I blink. “What.”
“No, really,” she insists. “You’re huge. I mean, look at these things.” She grabs my wrist, tugging at my arm with both hands, as if I don’t know how large it is.
I let out a strangled cough. “Iris—”
“I bet you could.”
I try to take a sip of my drink, but she is still holding my wrist.
She tilts her head, considering me.
Then her eyes narrow mischievously.
“Are you seeing anyone?” she asks.
I huff. “None of your business.”
“Come on, Garrik; you’re finally footloose and fancy free, back home on M’mir…and you’re not even trying to date?”
Of course I’m not.
None of the women in the Arborium are small, stubborn brilliant, with the most delicious scent and golden curls the same color as Aurelian honey.
None of them are Iris.
“Well, I remember you saying something about your brother trying to set you up as soon as you got back to the Arborium,” she says. “So what is your type? Let’s get you married off.”
I should not answer this question.
“Smart,” I say.
“Nice, go on.”
“Kind.”
Iris sips her mead. “Mmmmhm.”
“Blonde.”
I’m drunk.
Oh Yrsa help me, I’m drunk.
Iris’s smile drops, her eyes going wide.
Then she bursts out laughing.
I try to laugh along with her, taking a big, big swig of my mead. I’m not drunk, I’m just a fool in love.
Iris tilts her head, still grinning. “Blonde, huh?” she teases. “I guess that explains why you didn’t seem interested in that Ka’rethi woman who was making eyes at you back on Earth. Dark hair—wrong flavor.”
I make a sound that I hope comes across as nonchalant, but judging by the way she’s still looking at me, I’ve probably failed miserably. I take another big sip of my mead, avoiding her gaze.
“Oh no,” she says, eyes bright. “Are we making you shy, Garrik? Big, tough warrior beekeeper, embarrassed to talk about girls?”
I set my glass down, clearing my throat. “I just don’t see why my type is relevant.”
“Because it’s fun, obviously,” she says, resting her chin in her palm. “And because I haven’t seen you in months, and I need to catch up on all the gossip. I mean, come on—you’ve been home for six months and you haven’t even tried dating?”
“I’ve been busy,” I say weakly.
Iris snorts. “Oh yes, tending to your bees, collecting honey, living in peaceful harmony with nature—so time-consuming.”
She’s teasing me, but she has no idea how real the struggle is. The last thing I need is my well-meaning siblings trying to set me up when I’m already completely, utterly in love with the one person I can’t have.
I rub the back of my neck, desperate to change the subject. “You seem pretty interested in my love life, librarian. What about yours?”
Her smile falters, just a fraction. She picks at the edge of her glass. “What about it?”
I narrow my eyes. “Have you been seeing anyone?”
She exhales through her nose, shaking her head. “Nope.”
The answer comes too quick. Too final.
I tilt my head. “No one at all?”
“Not really in the mood to date,” she says, swirling her drink. “I mean, I just got here—still settling in, still figuring things out.”
I can’t stop myself from reading into it—that simple statement makes my stupid, desperate heart pound. I take a slow sip of my mead, trying to keep my face neutral.
Just because she hasn’t found somebody else she wants doesn’t mean she wants you.
Iris takes another sip of her mead, rolling the glass between her fingers.
“Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to start dating here.
It’s not like I have time to go out and flirt when I’m up to my ears in old books.
I mean, sure, the occasional scholar flirts with me, but it’s always something like, ‘Ah, Iris, your lexical analysis of pre-Convergence texts is positively scintillating,’ and I just–” She pauses.
“That’s not a compliment, that’s a book review. ”
I choke on my drink. “What do you want them to say?”
“I don’t know!” she says, throwing her hands up. “Something normal. Something charming. Something like—I don’t know, what would you say?”
“What would I say?”
“Well, yeah,” she says. “You’re always sweet and kind and…yeah. What would you say?”
I swallow hard, gripping my glass even harder. At this point, I’m afraid it’s going to shatter.
“I guess…” I start. “If I were trying to…charm someone…” My voice rasps, throat dry. “I’d probably say something like…”
Iris tilts her head, waiting, watching.
“I’d say…that I’ve never met anyone like them before,” I say, not looking at her.
“That they make every place feel warmer, like they bring their own unique light everywhere they go. I tell them that they have this way of making people feel…feel like they matter. And that it’s not just kindness—it’s them.
The way they talk, the way they listen, the way they care. ”
Iris isn’t laughing, doesn’t interrupt. I just let the words keep pouring out.
“I’d say that I notice things about them that I don’t think anyone else does,” I mutter, running my fingers up and down the cool glass.
“Like the way they get this crease between their brows when they’re trying to puzzle something out.
Or how they hum under their breath when they’re happy—usually something off-key, but never in a way that matters.
” I let out a small chuckle, shaking my head.
“And how sometimes, when they’re reading, they get so lost in their own head that they forget they exist in a body at all—until they go to stretch and realize they’ve been sitting in the same position for hours. ”
Iris blinks at me, eyes wide. She doesn’t say a word.
My fingers tighten around my glass. I should stop. I should stop before I say too much.
But I don’t.
“I’d tell them that I like the way they smell,” I say, barely more than a whisper. “Like honey and old books, like the sweetest flower.”
Her breath catches.
“And that I love how their voice sounds when they first wake up, all sleepy and soft.” I swallow, my throat aching.
“I’d say that I love how they love things.
That it doesn’t matter what it is—a book, a new idea, some ridiculous new recipe they found—they love with everything they have.
With all of them. And I think…” I exhale, rubbing at the back of my neck.
“I think that’s the best thing about them. ”
Silence.
The fire crackles. The hum of the tavern fades to a distant murmur.
I clear my throat, forcing a small smile, trying to smother the rawness in my voice. “That’s…what I’d say,” I finish, keeping my tone light. “If I were flirting.”