Page 20 of Heimlock

“Old,” I snipe. “You’re old.”

“I’m twenty-five, you dunghole.” He slaps me upside the head, making me laugh. He turns serious. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Got it.” Walking out into the fresh, misty air, I inhale the scent of ripe blossoms. My Dragon instincts immediately process the wind speed, so when I shift and leap into the air, I’m already calibrating.

The flight is only eight minutes, allowing me to arrive early to snag a table ahead of time. I agonize over waiting for her at the door of the restaurant, but there are already groups of people gathering. It’s too big ‌a risk.

The restaurant is nice enough, with dim lighting, candles on the tables, and a fountain in the center of the room. Vines hang from the ceiling, curating an intimate feel.

Even after only seeing one photo of Priscilla, I spot her the second she walks in. She’s a forest green Dragon with lime green hair, hazel eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. A tight-fitting black dress shows off her curves.

I stand, dropping my napkin. Panicking, I lean down to grab it, and smack my head on the table. Cursing too loudly, I rub the back of my skull, giving Priscilla a sheepish grin as she stops in front of me.

“Pretend you didn’t see that?”

She smiles at the request. “See what?”

Exhaling with relief, I hold out a hand. “I’m Trinte.”

Her delicate hand is soft in mine. Long nails brush the inside of my wrist. “It’s a pleasure to put a face to a name. Fynn told me all about you.”

I motion for her to sit. Should I pull out her chair? Too late — she’s already sitting. Damnit. Okay. Get it together.

Laying the napkin back in my lap, I say, “Good things, I hope?”

“Yes. He mentioned you’re training to be a Dragxi?”

I nod, fingers fiddling with the corner of the menu. Should I order for her? Would that make me a dunghole? “In training right now. We’ll work at the same company. His boss said there’s a spot ready when my training is up.”

“How interesting,” she says, sounding wholly uninterested while scanning the menu options. My knee jiggles and a bead of sweat rolls down my spine.

“So …” Fuck. I’m already messing this up. Priscilla looks up when I don’t say anything else. In a rush, I say, “What do you do?”

“I’m actually a teacher.”

“Oh?” I try to sound interested. “What do you teach?”

“Kids, mostly.”

“Ah, okay.”

I lift the menu, also trying to look busy. I nearly weep with joy when the waiter stops, looking down his bulbous Orc nose to peer at us. “Hello. I’m Viktur. I’ll be your waiter this evening. Can I get you started‌ with some drinks?”

I was going to say I’m too young to drink, but Priscilla smoothly interrupts. “Yes, let’s get two martinis, please.”

The waiter dips his head. “Of course. Please take your time looking at the menu, and I’ll take your order momentarily.”

When the Orc is out of earshot, I whisper, “I’m too young. Did Fynn tell you how old I am?”

Priscilla giggles. “It’s fine. I’m twenty-two. There’s not a big age difference there.”

Unsure how her age has anything to do with the legality of my drinking, I give a tight smile. I don’t want to get into trouble. It’ll get back to Fynn and he’ll be disappointed in me. I’ll pretend to drink, but I don’t actually have to.

Conversation continues to be difficult. She’s not as engaging as I’d hoped, so there’s nothing to balance out my awkward questions. Out of desperation, I ask what’s her favorite fruit. She merely looks at me with amusement, says grapefruits, and keeps reading the menu.

By the time the glass of vodka is in front of me, it’s a relief to do something with my hands and mouth.

Priscilla gasps, pointing over my shoulder. “Is that a Centaur? I’ve never seen one before!”