As they watched, her posture loosened minute by minute, until her shoulders no longer hovered near her ears. Her thighs, covered in stretchy leggings for the long trip, spread farther apart as she leaned closer to the monitor.
And just now, as she’d shifted in her seat, he’d spotted something very interesting indeed. In her chest region. Not that he’d been looking at her breasts, which weren’t especially remarkable. But what lay atop those breasts was.
He paused the episode. “Hey, Lauren?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she exhaled through her nose. “Yes, Alex?”
“What’s Big Harpy Energy?” He flicked a finger at her T-shirt. “And where can I get some?”
BHE: BIG HARPY ENERGY, the shirt declared in large, bold letters. In smaller text beneath, there was a hashtag: #CRONEGOALS.
“I’ve heard of Big Dick Energy,” he noted with a smirk, “and from all accounts, I’m a prime exemplar of that particular—”
“Can it, Woodroe.” She looked down at her chest, then gave a little shrug. “My best friend Sionna lost her husband about five years ago. A few months later, she announced she was founding the Harpy Institute for Crone Sciences. She asked if I wanted to join her and make it a two-person institution, and again, she’s my best friend, so …”
Another tiny shrug, as if to say, Really, what else could I do?
He tilted his head. “The Harpy Institute. For—”
“Crone Sciences,” she confirmed. “Sionna came up with the CroneGoals hashtag. I designed the T-shirts. We meet twice monthly to drink wine, binge-watch TV shows, and go over our progress in the Shrew Arts.”
She glanced toward his laptop screen, clearly impatient for him to restart the show, but nope. Not after that bombshell.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think Nanny Clegg occasionally had … fun?
No, that couldn’t be right.
But how could anyone who designed and wore a Big Harpy Energy tee be entirely devoid of humor?
“You designed the T-shirts,” he said slowly. “Plural.”
“Yes.”
He raised his brows. “Can I see the others?”
“Not right now, you can’t. They’re at my duplex.” She gestured impatiently at the screen. “Can we keep watching? I don’t think all the contestants will be done on time.”
Leaning back in his chair, he stacked his hands behind his head and smirked at her. “You realize a killjoy isn’t quite the same thing as a harpy, correct?”
Her fingertips massaged her temples. “I would imagine they’re somewhere along the same Crone Continuum.”
“Not necessarily. For instance, some killjoys are polite and restrained and rule-bound.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully and stared hard at her. “While Big Harpy Energy implies a certain amount of freedom, yes? From rules and guilt and expectations?”
“I seem to recall someone in this room playing upon a killjoy’s guilt mere minutes ago.” She glared at him. “I didn’t hear any complaints then.”
“Oh, I’m not complaining,” he said airily. “Merely pointing out that the acquisition of BHE will require effort on your part. You have some latent harpy tendencies, true. You demonstrated that over by the sandwiches.” He nodded toward the buffet. “But it’s certainly not Big Harpy Energy. Not yet. We can work on that.”
He wanted to see it. Nanny Clegg unbound and unrestrained.
If she acted like a harpy, at least she would be present with him, not tangled in her own thoughts. A participant, not an observer.
Sure, she’d been civil and professional and upheld her end of their various bargains all week. But for the most part, having her as a companion had been like sharing a room with a ghost. He might be able to interact with her, but she was fundamentally untouchable.
Not that he intended to touch Lauren, a woman who was—in essence—his coworker. But he did intend to see her smile. Laugh, even.
He could make her do both.
He would make her do both.
“Whatever.” Stretching out her arm, she tapped the touchpad to unpause the show. “Time to find out who proofed their dough long enough.”
“You love the series already!” Oh, he adored being right. Gloating always felt amazing. “I knew it!”
Her expression remained serene. “It’s okay.”
He gaped at her, aghast. “Blasphemy.”
“Shhhh.” She raised an admonishing index finger to her lips. “I’m trying to listen.”