“Our ops director prioritizes comfort for the team whenever she can.”
Internally, I groan. I don’t want to talk about work with this woman. I want to talk abouther. I have an unexpected ninety minutes of her undivided attention, and I want to take full advantage of it.
Mentally scrambling, I rush to ask, “What are you working on?”
Another question about work. My god.
“Oh.” She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip once more.
I ball my hands into fists to stop myself, fighting the urge to reach out and soothe her concern.
“I have a body-doubling session in ten minutes,” she says, her mouth turning into an uncertain frown. “I assumed I could do it on the ride to the sanctuary. I didn’t think?—”
“Of course you can do it,” I insist.
I’ve got ten minutes, then.
Grappling for a topic change, I ask, “Do you like animals?”
It’s a good thing my hands are already balled up. It helps keep me from smacking my palm against my face. Dammit. What a ridiculous question.
She smirks, side-eyeing me with a twinkle behind her eyes like she’s picked up on my self-censure. “I like them enough that I don’t eat them,” she reminds me.
Oh. That makes sense. “I assumed you were a vegetarian because of the texture of meat.”
Her eyes brighten. “That’s part of it. But when I was seven, I realized the turkey my dad prepared for Thanksgiving was actually aturkey. I had an obsession with penguins and toucans around that time, so I couldn’t stand the idea of eating any kind of bird. I’ve been a vegetarian ever since.”
“Are penguins and toucans still your favorite?”
She shakes her head, laughing to herself. “They’re on the list for sure, but my favorite changed year to year growing up. Although I did have a three year-streak where I obsessed about giraffes. Specifically reticulated giraffes.”
I roll the word around in my head—reticulated—but come up without a definition. “What kind of giraffe?”
She whips out her phone and leans over her armrest, closing the space between our seats.
My pulse picks up from the proximity.
“The reticulated giraffe is the largest of the species and tallest land mammal,” she says. “It gets its name from the Latin word reticulata, which translates to net or web. They have a defined, net-like pattern to their patches, see?” She holds up her phone, showing me the screen.
I home in on the photo but am quickly distracted by the way her fingers delicately grasp the device and the way each of her nails is polished Granata red.
Clearing my throat, I will myself to refocus. “What—what else do you know about giraffes?”
She side-eyes me again, her expression tightening this time. “Do you really want to know?”
Yes.
I want to know every detail she’s willing to share.
I want to discover what makes her who she is: what she likes, what she hates, how she views the world, what she wants most out of life.
“I do,” I confirm, hoping like hell I sound sincere.
She doesn’t speak. Like she’s waiting for me to change my mind or tell her I’m kidding.
She’ll have to wait an entire lifetime. Because I’m hanging on her every word.
“The Masai giraffe are a smaller species,” she finally continues. “They get their name from the maple leaf-like patterns of their patches. Oh.” She straightens. “Have you ever seen a giraffe’s tongue?”
