smirk anybody would expect from him. It’s small and so… human. Not in the sense that his other-speciesness isn’t glaringly apparent, but more like this sad-cocky expression is so relatable. “Your opinion matters, Isla.”
“Awww. Thanks,” I bump my shoulder into his side. I stare up into his emotion-hooded eyes, and he stares back into mine.
But if I thought this was going to turn into a Hallmark moment where he exclaims, with a ton of relief, that he’s glad he shared this with me?
Yeah, that doesn’t happen. Bash surprises me by sliding his fingers into my hair until he’s caught his fingers in my hairband.
Is he taking my hair down so we can passionately kiss? I’ll help! “Hang on, I can get it out,” I practically pant.
But he pulls it free, letting all of my hair fall loose—and then he turns and starts to walk away.
Okay… so no kiss.
Shoot, I didn’t even get a goodbye hug.
Hey! He didn’t even say goodbye. Clearly my alien needs guidance in decent social mores.
“Goodbye, Bash!” I call out way too loudly and with more effervescence than the situation calls for.
His horns notch up into the air a fraction. That’s his emotionally stunted goodbye. He’s got long alien legs so he walks fast, and this area is flat and allows me to watch him unobstructed. I don’t go inside until he turns his body enough that he can see me. When he does, I think he’s surprised that I’m still here—all of his spines raise.
I put my arm up high and wave once.
Slowly, Bash raises his own arm and waves back.
I turn away first, and I finally head inside. My hair slides over my shoulders, triggering a realization that has me smiling on the way to my room. Bash took my hairband… and he never gave it back.
CHAPTER 22
ISLA
After our date, you wouldn’t know Bash and I had a date. A day later and we go back to work like nothing happened. A week later and we’re… friending. It’s nice. If I were able to lay it all out there, I’d say I still want more. But this is all Bash wants, and it is nice, don’t get me wrong. So I’m friendzoned. I’m handling it. I like Bash as a friend, I really do. Every day, Bash has his midday meal near me when I break for lunch.
See? Friends.
Gracie sits in his throne, and he’s stopped trying to kick her out of it. Even if he cared—which he mostly acts like he doesn’t—she can only sit for short periods of time anyway before her back hurts so much she has to pace around the throne instead of sit in it. Bash makes everyone work further away so that no stray rocks can land on or in the way of Gracie, proving that he isn’t a heartless ogre.
(That’s what Gracie told him. She said he wasn’t a heartless ogre all the time and thanked him for caring about her. Bash growled at her, and he’s been avoiding her ever since.)
Which is tricky because sometimes I like to take lunch with Gracie. Poor Bash.
He’s leaning against the cool-surfaced rock wall, eating something that has a floppy naked tail and four burned feet. It isn’t a human so I don’t care. I’m freaked out, but I don’t care.
Gracie doesn’t care either, but when he bit into it, she gagged. She was mortified when the scent of whatever he was eating wafted to her. Nobody else was bothered by it, but her stomach went into revolt.
You’d think Bash would be pleased.
You’d think wrong. He gruffly started to move away after he locked eyes with me. But Gracie waved him right back where he’d been. “No, no, I’ll go sit with human people,” she said weakly. “You two kids have fun.” Then she sent me pointed eyes before she had to double over and retch.
“Pregnancy looks fun,” I commented.
“Shut up,” she said.
Bash and I finish eating in silence. I lick my fingers clean (because whatever sauce was used on my meal was finger lickin’ good—even with the bit of quarry dust I couldn’t quite manage to wash off my hands) and move to ball up the biodegradable paper that had wrapped my sandwich. I wave to Bash before walking to the food court area where most everybody else eats, heading for the trash bin to deposit my wrapper.
“I’ll take it,” Bash offers.
I didn’t even realize he’d followed right on my heels. “Wow, thanks,” I start to say—but I trail off