Chapter 33
Ren
Exhibits of any kind—vertebrate or invertebrate—don’t typically have fairy lights strung from the ceiling, or tealights placed strategically around the fossil mounts. But the new saurolophus family does look particularly great, thrown into shadow by all the different hues of yellow and white.
But they don’t look as particularly great as he does.
Mahogany hair pushed off his face, waves cresting around his ears, fresh stubble coming in and cutting across the sharp planes of his jaw that could give all the bones and rocks and sediment in the room a run for their money.
One hand shoved, haphazard and casual, into the pocket of tailored suit pants, clinging to the muscles in his thighs I can see from here.
The other, tattooed with that M, stark and on display as he reaches out and shakes the hands of fossil enthusiasts—or maybe baseball, Miller Colson-Burke enthusiasts—from all over the city.
But navy eyes find mine in the sea of people milling around the exhibit, his mouth tugs to the side, and the column of his neck moves with a swallow when he finishes shaking hands. He claps someone on the back and tips his chin towards me before jogging over.
The me from earlier this summer—she’d have said the most beautiful thing in the room was the almost complete juvenile saurolophus that still has a large patch of skin preserved on one of its forelimbs.
But this me? I think I’m the biggest Miller Colson-Burke enthusiast here.
Anywhere, really.
Hard not to be, when he moves through a room of people towards you looking like he stepped out of a magazine, shoulders stretching underneath the jacket of a tailored black tux, satin lapels, and a matching bow tie, and he’s smiling at you like you’re the only thing worth looking at.
I lift my hand in a small wave. “Hi.”
“Hey.” He stops in front of me, grinning down, eyes landing on my bottom lip before they sweep across my exposed shoulders, over the silk gathered across my chest, and the drape of the dress across my waist and hips, all the way to the floor.
Exhaling, he palms his jaw. “You look—uh, wow. You look beautiful.”
Plucking at the loose silk around my waist, I lean forward and whisper, “It’s Imani’s.”
His hand flexes at his side, and his fingers hover over my hip. “Think you can keep it?”
My cheeks burn. “I do think she is particularly fond of this one, unfortunately.”
“Too bad.” He swallows, gaze entirely dark when he looks down at me. “But, uh, let her know—if something were to happen to it, like it accidentally gets ripped when I’m pulling down the zipper, or I make a mess of it, I’ll reimburse her.”
“You want to undress me after another gala?”
His thumb drags across my hip. “After every gala and fundraiser and other event forever, yeah.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe I’ll let you look this time.”
“Can I—” He angles his head.
“I think adults are allowed to kiss on dates,” I say.
“Even, uh, practice ones?” The corner of his mouth lifts.
“Even those.” I nod, fingers fiddling with the silk lapels on his jacket. “Especially those.”
His palm splays across my waist, warm, and his lips move down to mine. Just this gentle, practiced thing, like we’ve done it a million times. And even though his mouth was all over mine for the better part of three days, it feels different.
And maybe it’s me that’s different. This person who can be alone—she did teach herself how, maybe a bit too late, but she learned all the same.
She just doesn’t want to be anymore.
“Missed you,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“I missed you, too.” I pull back, blinking up at him.
A jaw that could carve you apart, if you let it, but a man who would never, ever take from me like that.
Imani throws me an obvious thumbs-up from behind a giant fossilized fern, mounted on a wooden table display in the centre of the room, before her attention snaps back to whatever it is Graham’s talking about with one of the donors.
But those donors all sneak furtive glances over shoulders to get a look at the league’s star shortstop.
“Donors love you.” I roll my eyes, before throwing a hand wide. “No one cares about the collections manager who worked tirelessly on these fossils for weeks to prepare them for their debut.”
“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.
“Dr. Saunders.” He nods politely at Scott before turning to me, flaxen hair still neatly pushed back off his face. “Ren, could I speak to you?”
Scott pastes on some stupid, polite smile for Graham, but manages to throw me what’s probably supposed to be a withering glare before he turns on his heel, leaving me alone with our boss and the ferns.
“Having a nice evening?” Graham asks, blinking at me from behind his horn-rimmed glasses, staring a bit too intently when he takes a sip of sparkling water.
“Oh—uhm, yes. The collection looks great.” I wave a hand towards all the saurolophus fossils and their entirely inaccurate twinkling lights, smiling too wide while I wait for him to deliver some sort of admonishment about the same lack of professionalism Scott seems to think I’m exhibiting by being on a date with Miller.
He doesn’t. He gives me an absentminded nod, like his mind is already back on whatever research he left in his office. “Mm. It does. You did excellent work. I’ve just spoken to my colleague at the Maritime Museum. They were quite taken with you.”
“Oh?” I say weakly.
“Indeed. They found you to be quite charming,” he says, all surprise, like he can’t believe someone would notice or consider personality in something like an interview. “They’re going to offer you the job.”
“Oh,” I repeat, my voice falling into nothing. “Oh. Wow. Okay, uhm, thank you, Graham. I need—I need a minute.”