//CLARA//
Beatrice returned with three ice creams balanced precariously in her hands, her face bright with the effort of not dropping them. Oliver moved toward her before I could, taking two of the cones from her grasp.
"Thank you, Mr. Whitfield," she said.
"Oliver," he corrected again, this time with a voice so soft it was basically a stage whisper.
Beatrice looked up at him and beamed. Between the heat and the sheer awkwardness of the moment, the blush spreading across her face was so bright and patchy she looked less like a blushing debutante and more like a startled cockatiel.
Oliver just stared at her, completely malfunctioning. It was like his brain had hit a 404 error. The man who had literally just automated the future of the printing industry had suddenly devolved into a total airhead.
