Raiders of the Lost Heart(47)

And that would be the end of The Adventures of Badass Mejía and Weak Sauce Matthews.

Had to admit, it had a nice ring to it, even if it meant highlighting Ford’s faults. But he’d happily be Corrie’s sidekick. He’d happily be her anything.

That meant she couldn’t find out. No, now that he had her back in his life, he didn’t want to lose her again, even if all they were was friends. Because friends were something Ford desperately lacked. Real friends, at least. People he could talk to. People who understood him and everything he’d sacrificed to get where he was. Sure, he had a cool job and he loved teaching, but he’d sacrificed real connections to get it. Corrie understood that, though. It sounded like she was in much the same place. But she seemed to genuinely prefer it that way.

Maybe Ford might prefer it, too, if he gave it a try.

God, why had he signed up for this expedition? Maybe he needed to scrap the whole thing and let Corrie take the glory as lead archaeologist on her dream dig. Maybe she wouldn’t need to know about his whole scheme. It was actually a perfect solution to the predicament he was in.

Except for the fact that he couldn’t fail. He needed the money too badly. His mother’s life depended on it.

Which meant he needed to get his ass up and get that raft on the river.

He threw on his shoes and grabbed his jacket, then crawled out of the tent, finding Jon and Memo sitting directly across from him, stoking the fire with giant shit-eating grins on their faces. Great. They’d already seen Corrie come out. He could practically see the wheels turning in their heads.

“Good morning, Dr. Matthews,” Memo said. “Sleep well?” The suggestion in his voice couldn’t be missed.

“I slept fine.” In actuality, he’d slept wonderfully. It had been the first night since he’d arrived in Mexico that he didn’t lie awake thinking about his mother and worrying that they hadn’t found Chimalli.

Jon and Memo shot each other a glance before turning to Ford.

“I know what you’re thinking, and don’t,” Ford followed up. “It’s not like that. It was dumping rain last night. Where else was I supposed to sleep?”

“Could have slept with one of us,” Jon said.

“In those tiny-ass tents? Sorry, but I’ll take my chances with Dr. Mejía any day in that situation.”

“Take your chances with me how?” Corrie walked right beside Ford. How had he not heard her coming?

The guys pressed their lips together, afraid to comment. Chickens. But Corrie did that to people. Ford didn’t believe that none of her students had crushes on her. They were just intimidated. And there was so much about her that was intimidating—her beauty, her accomplishments, but mostly her intelligence. But after everything they’d talked about last night, he didn’t want to admit that they’d been talking about sleeping arrangements. Corrie wasn’t oblivious. She’d know exactly where their minds were, feeding right into her complaints. Because if Corrie looked less like Corrie and more like any one of the other dozen men on the crew, there wouldn’t have been any insinuation in Jon’s and Memo’s morning well-wishes.

God, men really were pigs.

“We were talking about the rest of this rafting trip,” Ford offered.

Corrie scanned his face, then glanced at Jon and Memo. “Sure you were.” She then walked up to Ford and put her hand on his shoulder. “You’re a terrible liar,” she whispered.

If that were the case, then she wouldn’t even be there. Good thing he was only a selectively bad liar.

The light crested the trees, signaling that it was time for the day to begin. After eating a light breakfast and packing, they set out on the river. They’d finally gotten a feel for the raft, easily meandering through the swift waters. The lack of rapids—so far—made things easier. So long as they didn’t have any more falling-out-of-the-boat incidents, they should be on track to hit both sites and make it to camp before dark. And, if they were lucky and site number two was the site, then they could skip site three altogether.

But they weren’t lucky. Site two was a complete and total bust. Ford started to think this was one of life’s sick jokes—luck had been on his side for the first thirty-eight years of his life, yet suddenly luck was nothing but a distant memory. The last two years had been nothing but bad luck. One crap event after the next. And this dig and rafting expedition were looking more and more like they might be adding to the string.

Even if the final site turned out to be the precious one—which Ford had no hope of any longer—all it meant was that they could have simply hiked to it from camp and saved themselves an entire day.

Add it to the list of bad decisions Ford had made.

They paddled leisurely on the river. The other three took in the sights and sounds of the jungle. Breathing in the air. Basking in the warmth of the sun. Brilliant red macaws sang from the branches, complementing the running trickle of the water. A mama tapir and her calf foraged for food near the riverbank, pausing and raising their proboscises, presumably to take in the unfamiliar human scents of their crew. Exactly the idyllic setting Ford had pictured before taking this job. Corrie leaned out to the side of the raft and let her fingers skate along the river. She was calm. Peaceful.

The opposite of Ford.

Corrie glanced over her shoulder, noticing Ford staring at her.