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“Please provide proof that he’s a service animal and cannot be disturbed while working, because he’s not wearing a vest, so…”
Lace snorts as she stuffs another firefly in her jar, effectively raising the current population of Glasstopia into the billions. “He’d make an awful service animal.”
“Why?” Chip asks. “He’s kind of like a German Shepard.”
“Too violent. You can’t be a service animal if you bite. He’d have to be a police dog.”
Chip’s smile warms. “You’re so smart, Lace.”
A switch flips in Lace’s brain, and suddenly fireflies are the last thing she’s thinking about. Snapping the rubber band back into place around the mesh fabric covering her jar, she sidles up to her husband, and it takes all of two seconds for both of them to forget I’m here. Which is…fine.
Obviously.
It’s not like I’m painfully used to it.
Or anything.
At least right now I have other toys to play with.
My gaze drifts toward Rowan, who’s looking a little crumpled on the pavilion steps, and I sigh.
Since the conversation between Chip and Lace is growing more uncomfortable for third party members by the second, I slip away. Every inch closing the distance between Rowan and I makes my heart pound a little harder, and I don’t know why.
Except, perhaps, that it makes me feel more and more untethered.
Control is my middle name, after all.
Actually, it’s Janice, because my parents have a sense of humor. But that’s another thing entirely.
I am used to being in control, commanding situations, taking charge, not having anxiety when it comes to approaching anyone.
Am I still messed up over last night? Even though Rowan in all his spreadsheet glory reviewed the situation and came to an adequate conclusion before I ever woke up?
Is it because I don’t know exactly what I said and the information no longer appears accessible even though I stole his iPad earlier?
Is it because…I think I have a crush on him?
When I make it within a few feet of the man I may have a bad crush on, a chill cuts straight down my spine. I clear my throat. “Hey…buddy.”
Sniffling—adorably, might I add—Rowan murmurs, “Hey.”
I wet my lips, inexplicably parched. “You all right?”
“Fantastic. Can’t you tell?”
“Oh, yeah, totally.” I bite my lip as I take a seat beside him and smooth my skirt against my thighs. It’s ridden up quite a bit, and I’m not hoping in any way that it’s at least subconsciously driving Rowan mental. That would be very wrong of me. “I, too, sob openly when I’m doing well.”
Rowan lifts the neckline of his shirt and wipes his face. “I had noticed that, yes.”
My stomach is doing unhelpful things. So I ask, “Would you like to talk about your feelings?” and cram all of my feelings down into the Mariana Trench of my soul.
“I don’t know. Would you?”
I just about choke. Going stiff, I stutter, “W-what in the Uno reverse card do you mean?”
“Chip says you’re lonely.”
My mouth falls open, and I shoot a look at my former friend. He’s kissing his wife. So I jerk my attention off them, and state, “How dare he.”
