Those same captivating, impossibly alluring almond-shaped eyes, which countless women deeply adore, dimmed ever so slightly.
"Director Brown, you're too formal. I still prefer calling you Skye Brown... or perhaps, Skye, you can choose one."
Norman York's voice was low and pleasant, like a wind chime gently played by the breeze, producing a clear and melodious tune.
Skye's ear tips quivered—not because of his voice, but because of the word 'Skye'.
Skye...
In the past, Dylan Wellington also always called her that.
A barely noticeable flash of emotion flickered across Skye's eyes, fleeting and elusive. She shook her head, "Don't call me Skye, Skye Brown is Skye Brown, call me that if you will."
Norman York curved his lips into a soft laugh. "Alright, Skye Brown it is."
When he laughed, his almond-shaped eyes sparkled with tiny stars, glowing brightly.
