If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was nervous.
But I hate the thought of her feeling nervous to be alone with me.
I have no idea why that should matter. I make a lot of people nervous. That’s their problem. Not mine.
So why does her emotional state feel like it’s my problem?
“Do I make you nervous?” I blurt.
“No.”
“Because you’re still holding my jacket.”
“Oh.” She thrusts it back to me. “Sorry.”
I take the jacket from her and slide my arms back into the sleeves, all too aware of the way she’s watching me. Aware of it, but confused by it as well.
It’s not critical or assessing. It’s almost . . . regretful. Like she wishes I wouldn’t put the jacket back on.
Are my clothes really that bad?
“Who’s Hagrid?” I ask.
Her gaze snaps to mine. “What?”
“That person you said I look like. The one Dave should know because he has children. Is this Hagrid person some kind parenting authority?”
She laughs.
For someone so tiny, her laugh is unexpectedly husky. Unexpectedly sexy.
Not that I’m surprised. Everything about Holly is sexy. I should be used to that by now.
“No, Hagrid is not a parenting authority. He’s a character from the Harry Potter books.” She tips her head to the side. “Let me guess—you haven’t read Harry Potter, have you?”
“Should I have?”
“They would have been popular when you were a teenager.”
Which explains why I’ve never heard of them. My childhood wasn’t exactly normal, even before the death of my parents when I was twelve. For them, having children was more of a grand experiment than a life experience.
Hypothesis: When two highly intelligent, highly educated people reproduce, the IQ of resulting offspring will exceed that of either parent.
Conclusion: Definitively yes.
By the time they got around to repeating the experiment to confirm their conclusions (i.e. having my sister, Tavey), they had already lost interest in me.
I don’t blame them.
They had interests and careers of their own. And I was, undoubtedly, a difficult child to keep occupied, let alone to love.
“I was in college when I was a teenager,” I blurt out.
She looks at me, her expression a little sad. “Yes, I know. I’ve seen your CV. I know how young you were in college.”
“Don’t do that,” I order.
“What?”
