Even after everything Ford had accomplished as an archaeologist . . . there his dad had been, buying garbage off the internet. Ford couldn’t make sense of it. Why his dad had resorted to eBay rather than certified auction houses and accredited antiquities dealers. Why he hadn’t ever asked for Ford’s opinion.
It hurt that Dad hadn’t trusted Ford’s expertise. And that was only the beginning of his string of disappointments.
He and Corrie walked to the camp in silence. Without Ethan there as his buffer, Ford worried about talking too much. No, they needed to get to the camp, pull out the topo maps, and make a plan. The less talking the better. The last thing he needed was to get in a fight with Corrie without a mediator.
The lack of talking did nothing to quiet his awareness of her, however. A cacophony in his head alerted him to her proximity whenever she drew near. Not that he needed a notification. His body was already more than cognizant of her closeness, reacting involuntarily to each movement she made. He tried not to stare at her ass when she was in front of him or at her long, beautiful neck when she lifted her water bottle for a drink. He had to keep reminding himself of the agenda: use Corrie’s help to get out of this mess, not get into a new mess with her.
Back at the camp, a crew of men were erecting Corrie’s tent, pounding and hammering to get the platform in place. Luckily, he’d radioed ahead for them to get started, so hopefully the tent would be ready before nightfall.
It would be good to get his space back. Agnes was right—sharing with the other men was gross. Ford liked his privacy. And the ability to take care of himself in case Corrie invaded his dreams again.
“Back so soon?” Agnes called out, in the middle of making lunches in the mess tent, with Lance going over paperwork beside her. Every day she packed a meal that got picked up and delivered to the crew at the work site. Some days a hot lunch. Some days cold. Today—a supply drop day—meant something with a fresh component: the food that wouldn’t last through the whole week with their not-quite-sufficient refrigeration system. It did an adequate job, but they’d had two instances now where half a week’s worth of food had gone bad.
“Uh, ran into a little hiccup,” Ford said, walking into the tent and eyeing the spread of cold-cut sandwiches with lettuce, tomatoes, and the works.
“Hiccup?” Lance said, looking up from his papers.
“We’re looking for a new site.”
Agnes’s eyebrow raised. “Sounds like more than a hiccup, if you ask me. But, hey, I’m not the archaeologist. You are,” she said, pointing a butter knife at Ford and waving it around in a circle.
Usually Ford appreciated Agnes’s jabs and taunts. They made it feel like she was a friend rather than a hired hand. Her tell-it-like-it-is attitude always made him laugh and set a lighthearted tone around camp. But not today. Today Ford didn’t need anything or anyone else pointing out his failures. Especially not in front of Lance.
“Anything the investor should be worried about?” Lance asked.
Yes.
“Nah, I don’t think so,” Ford responded, earning a curious look from Corrie.
“Ford is thinking there might be multiple sites, that’s all,” she then chimed in.
Now Ford was the one tossing questioning glances.
“Yeah . . .” Ford let his words evaporate in the air. “Mind if we take a couple of these?” he asked, motioning toward the sandwiches. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Of course. Need anything else?” Agnes asked as Ford loaded up a plate.
“Actually, think you could make some more of that coffee?” Corrie asked.
“You got it. Let me finish these and I’ll bring it over. Where can I find you?”
“We’ll be in my tent,” Ford responded, noticing a slight curl in the corner of Agnes’s mouth. “Working,” he added.
He led the way to the tent, tying up the corners of the window flaps to let in some light. But when he entered, a blast of Corrie slapped him in the face. She was everywhere, or at least her things were: Gear set out to dry. Clothes dangling from every surface. Her things mingled with his own. Tangling her life into his.
“I see you settled in all right,” he said.
“Oh jeez, I’m sorry,” she said, rushing into the tent and swiping up her belongings.
“Looks like your bag vomited. Guess it’s a good thing you aren’t leaving right away.”
“Yeah, well, everything got soaked last night. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d see it like this. Give me a minute.”
Corrie scurried around the room, snatching shirts and shorts and whatever else she’d had crammed in those bags. Seriously, the woman knew how to pack. It looked like she had an entire apartment’s worth of stuff in there. Ford could have helped, but it didn’t feel right to be touching her things.
Besides, he’d learned his lesson last night. Who knew what he’d find today?
“Thanks for not ratting me out to Lance, by the way,” he said.
“Of course.”
He paid her no mind as he made his way over to the desk, setting the plate of sandwiches and some cut-up fruit on the corner then sorting through the stacks of paper covering its surface. They’d need to take another look at the topographic maps to figure out where to search next. The maps had various areas marked. Places he’d already checked. Places he’d ruled out without visiting. But maybe Corrie would notice something he couldn’t.
Upon finding the correct maps, he unfurled the giant rolls of paper across the desk, then pulled out a chair to sit.
And on the seat lay a black lace bra. The delicate fabric didn’t look strong enough to tame Corrie’s breasts. Even now he could tell she was wearing a bra with substantially more support than the thin, practically see-through lace contraption in his hands. It also didn’t appear it would even fully cover her ample breasts. This wasn’t a bra for digging up jungle dirt. He’d been on so many digs that he’d seen lots of things—including all sorts of people in various states of undress—and sports bras, or at least no-frills full-coverage bras, tended to be the standard. No, this was a bra for . . . other activities.
“Uh, here. Don’t forget this,” Ford said, walking over to Corrie shoving clothes in her bag.
She looked at the bra in his hands and surprisingly looked pretty nonchalant about it. Like Ford could have been handing her a pair of socks.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the bra from his hands.
But for some reason, he didn’t stop there.
“Does that even do anything?” he asked. Why? Why had he asked that? The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could suck them back in.
She cocked her head. “Excuse me? Are you judging my intimates?”
“I’m sorry . . . It’s none of my business.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Well, I mean, it doesn’t seem practical for out here, that’s all.”
“And what would you know about it? Ever worn a bra, Ford?”
He furrowed his brow at her. Clearly it was a rhetorical question. She liked those.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “You’re right. It’s not any of your business, but I didn’t exactly know where I’d be going and whether there’d be any access to going-out places. And, frankly, sometimes I like to feel sexy, even if it’s only for myself.”