7. Willa
CHAPTER SEVEN
WILLA
Idragged my notebook closer, flipping to a page where I’d been writing down ideas during a lull in phone calls, online applications, and reorganizing the filing cabinets. “What about the driftwhisps? They’re beautiful, they’re interactive, and kids will love watching them move.”
“Driftwhisps react to emotional energy. In a room full of excited children, they might become overstimulated. You know how they are if they haven’t had a chance to get to know someone.
They’d be too frightened for a first encounter.
Perhaps partway into the school year, after they’ve gotten used to the children. ”
“Okay. That’s fair. What about Fred? Kids love things that float. He’s a black and white balloon with cute sound effects.”
“Grumbletoads require careful handling and calm environments. Their sounds might worry the orclings—children.”
“The clatterwings?”
“They steal reflective objects. We’d spend the entire class retrieving whatever they stole from third-graders and teachers and hoping they didn’t drop them on someone’s head.”
I set my pen down. “So what creature do you think we should start with?”
He pulled up a different screen on his tablet, scrolling through a ranked list. “The hearthmaw juvenile in the east pasture would show the best—”
“Traig. You mean the bear-sized thing with the horns?”
“He’s very gentle.”
“He’s the size of a small horse. We shouldn’t start with something that could accidentally sit on a child.”
His mouth twitched, making my heart zip around like a fizzling.
“That would not impress the school district.”
We were trying not to laugh.
I picked up a cookie and took a bite, speaking after I’d swallowed. “What about the Bloombacks? Rue and Fern. They’re the right size. They’re gentle. And they’re—”
“Potentially bonded, yes. I’ve been reviewing the data.”
“Have you changed your opinion?”
His fingers moved across the tablet screen. “The connection between Fern’s decreased appetite and separation from Rue is significant. I may have dismissed your suggestion a little too soon.”
Traig-speak for, you were right. Or that he was at least thinking about what I’d said. I appreciated that.
“Then let’s use them,” I said. “The kids will love them.”
“The Bloombacks would work well for the program structure.” He pulled up a new document, already typing—with only two fingers. But I doubted orcs took typing classes back in the kingdom. “We can design the lesson around their behavior and introduce basic ideas about creature social structures—”
“Or,” I said, “we could tell the kids they’re in love.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“The Bloombacks. We tell the kids they’re in love. That they need to be together to be happy. That they take care of each other.”
“That makes them sound human.”
“It’s also true.”
“It’s assigning people emotions to non-people behavior.”
“Traig.” I leaned forward. “The kids are eight. They don’t need behavioral frameworks. They need a story they can understand and care about.”
He stared at me, his expression cycling through horror, consideration, and a touch of acceptance that was punctuated by his shoulders drooping, though only slightly.
“That would be effective,” he said.
“Stories matter more than precision.”
“I’m not sure anything matters more than precision.”
“To you, perhaps. Me to some extent, too, but to little kids? It’s simple to understand. They all know happy couples, or I hope they do. We just show them that creatures form similar bonds and that makes them happy, too.”
His tusks shifted again, and this time his mouth definitely twitched toward a smile. “I’ll add it to the lesson.”
“Deal.”
I took another sip of coffee, and he started typing on his tablet.
We worked through the next creature selection together, finding a rhythm. He’d suggest something based on behavioral data, I’d push back on practicality, and we’d land somewhere in the middle with an animal that was actually better than either of our first choices.
By the time we hit the forty-five-minute mark, I’d eaten three cookies, Traig ten, and Traig had relaxed enough that he wasn’t clutching his tablet like a shield.
And we’d only made a dent in the creature schedule.
We’d have to finish on another day since it was almost time to end the meeting. I still had work to do at my desk.
A yellow-and-pink blur shot through the gap where I’d left the conference room door cracked open.
“No,” Traig said.
Nix chittered, already zooming around the perimeter of the room at top speed.
“How does he keep getting out?” I asked.
“I checked the enclosure after lunch. It’s impossible.” Traig stood, tracking Nix’s movement. “I’ve started to suspect he’s using magic.”
“Can fizzlings do that?”
“No. But I have no other explanation.”
Nix completed another lap, building speed, his stripes glowing brighter with each pass. He launched himself off the back wall, ricocheted off a filing cabinet, and aimed directly for the space between Traig and me.
We both reached for him at the same time.
My hand closed around air.
Traig’s hand closed around my wrist.
Nix discharged.
The shock cracked through both of us, sharp enough to make my hair stand on end and my arm tingle from fingertips to shoulder.
Traig’s grip tightened.
We froze.
His hand was warm, his palm rough against my skin. His thumb rested against my pulse point, which was currently leaping around more than it should.
I could feel my heartbeat everywhere.
Nix chirped, landed on the table, and snatched up a cookie. Another chirp and he zipped back out the door.
“Sorry,” Traig said, his voice one big rasp.
“It’s okay.”
He released my wrist slowly, his fingertips dragging across my skin as he pulled away.
The tingling didn’t stop.
I sat back down a little too quickly and picked up my notebook like I’d been planning to write something in it. My hand was shaking.
Traig remained standing, staring at the door Nix had escaped through, his shoulders rigid, his tablet held against his chest with both hands.
He grunted. “I should—”
“Do you think—” I said at the same time.
We both stopped.
“You first,” I said.
“No. Please. You were saying…”
I had no idea what I’d been about to say.
“Should fizzlings eat cookies?” I asked.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” His shoulders dropped. “Everyone loves cookies.”
“You especially.”
He looked at the plate, at the evidence of his cookie consumption, and his expression softened into embarrassment. “I ate most of them. This is… I should’ve shown more restraint.”
“Are you kidding? I love that you love cookies. There’s no shame in that.”
His gaze snapped to mine.
“No shame,” he repeated quietly.
“It’s something we share.”
“Share.”
The conference room seemed smaller suddenly. Warmer.
He sat back down and ate another cookie in one bite. A deliberate choice, not to let the moment get bigger. And laid his tablet on the table.
His fingertip moved across the screen. “As for Nix, the cookie won’t harm him. Fizzlings share food with their clutch. Each will only get a small bite.” He cleared his throat. “Though we need to make sure he doesn’t steal another. I should build something over their enclosure. A dome, perhaps.”
“That might be the best solution.”
I pretended to review my notes while trying to remember how to breathe normally.
“We should schedule the next meeting,” he said. “I thought Friday afternoon.”
“Same time?”
“Same time.”
He made a note on his tablet. I made a note in my notebook that just said friday with no other context.
We were being so professional.
“I’ll send you my notes tonight,” he said.
“Great. I’ll review them before our meeting.”
“Good.”
“I should get back to the desk,” I said, standing.
“Yes. I’m sure you have documentation to complete.”
I picked up my notebook, grabbed another cookie to eat along the way, and started for the door.
“Willa.”
I turned.
He sat at the table, tablet under his hand, his dark eyes fixed on me in a way that made me forget how to do normal things like think. Blink. Breathe.
“Yes?”
“I found our work together today valuable. Your input. How we…” He gestured between us with one large hand. “Found solutions together.”
“I enjoyed it too.”
“You push back when my ideas are too complicated. No one else does that. They just let me continue.”
The vulnerability in that admission landed on my chest like a weight.
“Well, someone has to keep you from lecturing eight-year-olds about behavioral manifestation patterns.”
His mouth definitely curved up this time. “Yes. Someone should.”
I left before I could ask what he was thinking about when he looked at me like that.
Fred was sitting on the counter at the reception desk, the thornsprig still riding on his back like a tiny knight.
Amanda’s tiny thorn crown had dimmed to a soft glow, and she was hissing while stroking his spine. Fred’s grumbling had taken on a rhythmic, almost purring quality.
They’d bonded.
In less than two hours, a grumbletoad and a thornsprig had figured out they were friends.
I looked back toward the conference room, where Traig must be carefully picking up his things.
Some bonds were quick and clear. Others took more time.
Drogar stood at my approach and went around to lean on the front of the counter. “How was the meeting?”
“Productive,” I said, sliding into my chair.
“Nothing else?”
“What else could there be? We made good progress on the creature selection.”
“Mm-hmm. Traig looked very focused when he was setting up earlier.”
“He was certainly ready.”
“Did he bring you coffee?”
My face heated. “How did you know he’d do that?”
“It was only a guess.”
I pulled out my phone, pretending to check messages I didn’t have. “I need to finish the supply order reconciliation.”
“Of course. Very important desk work that requires looking at your phone.”
I ignored him and focused on my screen until he got bored and wandered off to help Laina with something in the medical bay.
The supply ledger sat open where I’d left it, Fred’s butt-print still visible in the margin.
I kept thinking about how much Traig had enjoyed the cookies.
Which made me imagine him in my kitchen, eating something I’d made. Standing too tall for my counters, having to duck under my hanging light fixture—
Fred grumbled from the ceiling, still wearing Amanda like a tiny chaperone.
Right. Work. I was at work. Thinking about work things. Not about how Traig would look in my kitchen.
The rest of the day zipped by almost as fast as a fizzling. I processed two more intake calls, updated the adoption inquiry spreadsheet, and did not think about how Traig’s hand had felt around my wrist.
Barely thought about it.
Hardly at all.
By the time I locked up the desk and headed to my Jeep, the sun had started to sink behind the tree line, painting everything in that particular golden light that made Maine look like a postcard. I climbed into the driver’s seat, tossed my bag on the passenger side, and started the engine.
I’d made it to the end of the dirt road before I had to pull over.
I sat with hands on the steering wheel, staring at nothing.
I was smiling.
Traig and I had disagreed about almost everything. Nix had shocked us both and escaped again.
And I was sitting in my Jeep, smiling like a fool.
I tried to stop but couldn’t.
“What are you doing?” I asked my empty car.
A clatterwing flew past my windshield, chiming as it went.
We’d be alone again on Friday.
Same time. Same conference room.
Probably more cookies, though I needed to pull out my recipe box and tell him I’d bring the treat this time.
I could look forward to more Traig looking at me with his dark eyes while his tusks fiddled with his upper lip and his voice dropped half an octave when he said my name.
“Well,” I said.
I was still smiling when I pulled back onto the road and headed home.