nipples could cut glass?’”
For the first time since I edged up to him and started yapping, Bash shows signs of something other than rage. He pauses his pounding on the rocks to give me an uncomprehending stare. “Say again?”
My gaze goes right to his nippular-level, which is conveniently located practically in front of my face. He’s smuggling muscles galore under his shirt, but his shirt, for all the acres of chiseled edges it’s lovingly outlining, is conspicuously free of nipple-bumps. “Oh. You must not have those?”
His eyes close, and he rubs behind his ear, where—I know from experience—is the place a translator chip gets popped under your skin. “I heard you say mynah, which I understand is one of your world’s birds, and I heard apple, and from the translator I gather that’s a fruit—”
“Ha! Gather. Fruit. There’s almost a pun in there.”
“—then I heard cold-cuts which is a tray of meats, and then you said glass. Birds, fruit, cold meats, and glass? What does that sequence have to do with a temperature the opposite of boiling alive? Your human phrases are strange.”
“Some sure are, but you totally heard me wrong. Anyway, the point is, our seasonal temps could use some moderation. Moderation is good in all things.”
Bash tips his horns, the ear closest to me flicking forward and back so fast it makes a popping noise. “Now there’s a wisdom I agree with.”
I keep up random commentary and Bash keeps beating giant rock slabs into smaller human-handleable chips. I’m collecting the small chunks of stone and keeping Bash company. Gradually, his nostrils stop producing smoke. He’s calmed. He hasn’t told me to stop talking, and he hasn’t stalked off, so I feel like we’re friending.
Bash bends his knees, preparing to lift another ginormous boulder.
And being the good friend I am, I drop the rock I’d been carrying into the cart and hurry back to him. If I were pressed to explain why I was in such a hurry, my official story is that I’m acting as Bash’s spotter.
Safety is important.
But honestly, even though he’s wearing clothes on top of a body full of scales, Bash is not hard on the eyes. Totally hard in everything else—personality, muscles, his scowling-so-hard-he-could-break-fine-china face—but he’s sure not hard on the eyes.
A woman’s giggle breaks Bash’s concentration, making him turn his head to the sound—and because I’m standing just off to the side of him while he’s crouched, his horn darn near catches me in the eye socket, just like I’ve been afraid of.
“Ack,” I exclaim. It’s less than a yelp, because I moved back in time.
Bash’s ears twitch. “Apol—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I wave my hand. “You’re sorry you almost mutilated me with the danger sticks on your head, I know.” I keep my hand cupped to my brow protectively. “What is with you and wigging out whenever somebody laughs? Are you allergic to laughter?” I pat him on the shoulder, which makes him stiffen, still kneeling and beginning to look like he’s blending in with the stone he was about to lift. “Is that your problem?”
“My problem,” Bash grates, his tone acid, “is that trio’s frolicking.”
I look to where he’s indicating by way of his turned-up nose. It’s Helen, her Rakhii, and her hob. “Oh no,” I say, deadpan, “the hob is smiling, darn him—but he’s working, look at that, he’s a good boy, which is totally typical of hobs, they’re great like that—”
Bash’s body turns even stonier. He’s now surpassed the rock in the ability to be mountainous and remote.
“—and Helen is smiling at the Rakhii and guess what! They’re working too.” I look between the three people, the two hot creatures vying for Helen’s interest, and Helen demurely praising both of them. Who knows who will end up together; I’ve heard Rakhii can’t really share, and I believe it. But one thing is clear: they’re still all doing their jobs. Flirting or not, they’re getting work done. So I’m confused as I swing between eyeing them and Bash’s impassive face. “What’s making you sparkle with happiness now?”
Bash usually likes it whenever I describe his mood in sarcastic terms. He calls my assertions ridiculous, but I can tell he’s secretly thrilled.
He doesn’t even touch it this time though.
Bash’s fingers flex at the base of the rock still sitting on the stony ground. “That male wastes his time.”
I grab another rock and wing it into the cart, shocked that Bash still hasn’t moved. Him, not tirelessly working? “Which one?”
“The Rakhii,” Bash answers so low