Marisol paced the room like a panther in a cage, phone pressed to her ear. Her usually calm, businesslike demeanor had been replaced with something almost... flustered. Amara and Elara, perched on the couch like overgrown vultures, watched her with poorly concealed amusement.
"Yes, yes, Clémence. I understand. No, I think it's a great idea," Marisol said in her flawless French, though her tone lacked its usual confidence. She twirled a pen between her fingers, a rare sign of nervous energy.
Elara, legs crossed and eyes sparkling, leaned toward Amara and whispered, "She's totally smitten."
Amara smirked. "I haven't seen her this off-balance since that time we swapped out her coffee for decaf."
Marisol shot them both a withering glare, but it was undermined by the faint blush creeping up her neck. "I'll call you later," she said hurriedly into the phone before hanging up and tossing it onto the table as if it had personally offended her.
