Raiders of the Lost Heart(38)

“Oh, I, uh . . . I forgot.”

The wrinkle in her brow signaled that she knew he was full of it. But he didn’t want to admit that in three months he hadn’t actually gotten to know anyone, whereas she’d already managed to be on nickname basis with the crew.

“Well, here, give me the walkie.” She held out her hand.

“No, I’ve got it. What do you want me to ask?” He pulled the walkie out of his backpack.

“Let me do it.” Her voice was impatient.

But no. This was his job, after all. He was the one in charge.

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and lunged for the walkie as he twisted to keep it away from her. He raised the walkie above his head as she clawed for it. “Just give it to me!”

Flip.

Their wrestling knocked the walkie out of his hands. It flew into the air before arcing down the slope toward the rocks. “What is your problem?” she shouted at him.

“My problem? I’m still in charge here, you know.”

He winced the minute he said the words. That wasn’t him. Well, maybe the old him. The Ford who thought he was hot shit because everything magically worked out for him. All. The. Time.

Want this internship? Sure. How about admission to your dream graduate program? Don’t mind if I do. And what about this Yale fellowship? Why, yes, please. And might as well throw a full-time teaching gig at Yale on top of it.

Easy-peasy.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t earned it. Ford was smart. And charming. And made the right connections. Because that was the way life worked. The more people you knew, the better your luck.

Until those connections dumped your ass and left you fighting tooth and nail to keep what you had left. Not to get ahead. Not to come out on top. Just to maintain.

It didn’t matter that his classes were always the first to fill up during enrollment and that they always had at least a dozen people on the waitlist. Or that he’d been published well over thirty times in the last eight years. Or even that he’d helped secure hundreds of thousands of dollars in donations and grant funding because of his work. No, none of that mattered anymore. Not since Addison Crawley had decided she wanted nothing to do with him.

It was too bad that Dr. Richard Crawley now wanted nothing to do with him anymore, either.

Now he had to work. No, not work. Grind. These last few years he’d worked harder than he’d ever worked before to ensure he kept his job, which only added to the stress of also having to care for his mom.

So what he was doing acting like Mr. Big Bad Boss to Corrie was beyond him. He really was a dick sometimes.

“Wow, Ford.” Her eyes widened as she gave an exaggerated blink. “You know, I actually thought you’d changed for a hot minute. But I guess not. Guess you’re the same old asshole that you’ve always been. I’ll see you at the raft. Please don’t slip and crack your head open on a rock.”

Without waiting for a response, she barreled down the slope like a skier traversing gates on an alpine course as she swung her way around trees.

And there they were, back at square one.

Chapter

Nine

I should leave him here, stranded in the fucking jungle. We’ll see if Dr. Charles in Charge can find Chimalli by himself.

She glanced back at Ford, still navigating the rocks on his way to the raft like a tottering toddler taking their first steps, and shook her head. He looked fit. Had a body built for adventure. How the hell was he so uncoordinated? Maybe she didn’t want to hate-fuck him. It probably wouldn’t have been any good. He was probably one of those guys who comes and then forgets there’s another person there. A watches himself in the mirror kind of guy. And then she’d only hate herself for letting him win. For letting him think he was in control of her. Because the one thing he wasn’t was her boss.

And another thing he wasn’t was in control. Ford would be lost without her, and not just physically lost in the jungle. No, he wouldn’t have any clue where to look. If only she hadn’t pointed out the other potential spots on the damn map. Then she could go claim one of them for herself.

Assuming one turned out to actually be the spot.

God, she hoped one of them was right, if for nothing else than to shove it in Ford’s annoying, smarmy . . . gorgeous face that she was right, he was wrong, and he needed her. Maybe if someone like Dr. Ford Matthews needed her, other people might start taking her a little more seriously. Sure, it was flattering to be known as a badass to students, but the Lara Croft comparisons were starting to get old. She was tired of never getting an invite to speak at the International Institute of Archaeology’s annual conference, the most prestigious gathering of the world’s archaeologists. Aside from a few Women in Archaeology panels she’d done in the past, the only conferences she’d been invited to speak at were Comic-Cons. Fun, yes. But not exactly career-building opportunities.

No, she was the one who hadn’t been able to land a good job after they’d graduated （thanks to Ford swiping her opportunity）。 The one who’d started teaching at some random third-tier school and only made her way to Berkeley after Archaeological Digest ran that ten-page story about one of her many digs that had gone awry but had a happy—and unexpected—ending. The story had included a couple of full-length color photos of her in a pair of short-shorts and a low-cut tank top. She’d become the talk of the town after that story, and whether it was because of her badass dig story or because of her fine ass, that story had led to her next teaching gig, which had then led to Berkeley. And even then, she suspected the reason Berkeley had hired her had more to do with trying to increase enrollment, given the buzz around her name （and picture）， and less to do with her actual skills. She only hoped that someday people would stop thinking of her as that one curvy, sexy Latina archaeologist and maybe as that archaeologist who helped discover Chimalli.