After three months into this dig and finding little more than a couple of jagged bits of obsidian, he could use a little dose of that Mejía magic. He’d never flat out told Ethan why he wanted to bring Corrie of all people onto the dig, though he assumed it was obvious. Still, Ethan’s brows raised and his jaw lowered, as if shocked by Ford’s confession.
“Wow. I have to say, I’m surprised to hear you admit that.”
“Believe it or not, Ethan, I do have a little humility. See? Me? Not the cockiest.” Ford smiled, knowing his friend appreciated his humor—and knowing that deep down, Ethan was only looking out for him.
They’d traveled the world together. Been on dozens of digs. He was the best friend Ford had, though lately Ford had been closed off. Ever since his whole life had gotten turned upside down. Sure, he could acknowledge his humility, but not this. Not his fears that he deserved all the crap that had been thrown his way these last few years.
“Well, maybe if you admitted that to Corrie, maybe she’d be a little nicer to you,” Ethan said, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“What? Me not being the cockiest?” Ford joked.
“No, you jackass,” Ethan said, smiling and rolling his eyes. “That you think she’s brilliant. I’m sure she’d appreciate your approval.”
Ford brought back his head. “My approval?” He laughed. “I doubt Corrie would be all that impressed with my approval.”
“You’d be surprised,” Ethan said, with suggestion in his voice. Like he knew something he wasn’t telling Ford. “Because maybe you’re not aware, but you’re pretty fucking brilliant, too.”
Ford smiled.
“Aw, you think I’m brilliant,” he joshed while batting his lashes. He’d never dare to admit it, but it was actually quite sweet and probably the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t forget we started this conversation by calling each other dicks. Now, come on. I’m starving.”
Chapter
Three
Even if she wasn’t going to stay, Corrie didn’t mind having a little fun getting under Ford’s skin in the meantime. It was easy. All she had to do was open her mouth and bam! Let the battle commence. Though he really was being a baby about the whole Sunny thing. Leave it to Ford to not want anyone else to be in the spotlight. In his world there could only be one shining star.
But even the brightest of stars eventually burned out. Hence why Corrie didn’t care much for pretty shiny things or anything else that inevitably faded. Things like diamond rings. Fresh flowers. Or love. Life was much easier on her own, anyway. No one to answer to. No one to stop her from jetting off to Mexico on three days’ notice. No one to chastise her about her dangerous antics. If she died while trying to outrun a boulder careening through a booby-trapped temple, then at least she’d go doing something she loved. At least she’d go while having an adventure. Prima donnas like Ford who never bent the rules or took a risk for fear of getting hurt . . . well, they’d never understand.
Corrie wandered around the small clearing that held the camp, the rumble of the crew talking while waiting in line for dinner adding to the hoots and chirps of the jungle. Even well after dark, the air temperature had barely dropped. It was definitely gonna be one of those never-feel-fresh digs, always coated in mud, sweat, and a muggy sheen. So how did Ford manage to still look so . . . appetizing?
She shook her head. Why? Why did her mind keep going there? Must have been her stomach talking. She circled back around toward the mess tent. Smelled good. Having a cook flown in was better than most digs, where they shared cooking duties or had nothing but individual camp stoves and dehydrated food pouches. If she never had to eat another packet of rehydrated scrambled eggs with “bacon” in her life, she’d call that a victory.
She walked up to the tent, grabbed a tray, and cycled through the line, loading up with a biscuit, a pat of butter, a small green salad, and a hearty bowl of beef stew.
“You made this all out here?” Corrie asked the cook as she handed her the bowl.
“Sure did. Real food only. None of that freeze-dried or prepackaged crap here,” the cook said, holding her head high. “You must be Dr. Mejía.”
“Corrie.” She reached out her hand for a shake.
“Agnes. Guess we’ll be bunkmates, eh?”
“Oh. Well, I, uh . . . I don’t know.” Corrie glanced around the camp, just now realizing the person-to-tent ratio. Well, damn.
“Well, if you’d rather bunk with those burping, farting, loudmouth boobs, then by all means,” Agnes said, motioning toward the rest of the group—all men aside from Agnes, Sunny, and Corrie. Not that she minded coed sleeping situations, but she was a thirty-five-year-old woman who liked her privacy. She didn’t even want to live with a cat, let alone other people.
“No, I mean, we haven’t discussed sleeping arrangements. And frankly, I’m not really even sure I’m going to stay.”
“Not going to stay? Then why did Dr. Matthews have me bust my budget getting these gosh dang Jamaican coffee beans?” Agnes reached over to grab a clipboard and looked at what appeared to be an order form. “Said we had to have them,” she mumbled as she turned her back and reviewed the form.
Warmth spread over Corrie’s skin. He’d remembered. He remembered her love for Jamaican coffee.
She had to admit, he didn’t really seem the thoughtful type. No, Ford Matthews was always in it for himself. Perhaps that was all this was—his way of buttering her up so she’d sign on for this dig. See? We even special ordered your favorite coffee, just for you, because your being here means soooooo much to us.
Then wham! Ford’s name gets slapped on one of the greatest discoveries of their time and all Corrie gets is a smooth, rich cup of delicious Jamaican coffee.
Then again, that long evening they’d spent in the library drinking coffee together out of Corrie’s thermos was ingrained in her brain even after all these years. Maybe it was ingrained in his as well. She could still picture his lips pressed against the tiny red plastic cup of her thermos. Or at least it had looked tiny in his hands. His lips, touching the same spot where her lips had been, savoring that coffee as she’d savored his emerald eyes staring back at her from behind his glasses, never taking away his gaze. She remembered how the low moan in his throat had fanned the fire building in her core as the creamy yet bold and zesty coffee hit his taste buds. And how he’d licked away those few droplets that clung to his lower lip before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and returning the cup to her while brushing his fingers ever so lightly across her own.
Yep, she’d analyzed what that night meant many times, especially in light of the fact that a few days later she’d found him sucking face with Addison Crawley, daughter of the famed Yale professor Dr. Richard Crawley—Ford’s eventual boss. Who should have been her boss.
Corrie turned toward the tables, searching for Ford.
There.
He quickly looked away when she spotted him, but he’d clearly been watching her, which sent another tingle, though this one was focused in her midsection.
All right . . . maybe she wouldn’t try quite so hard to get under his skin. After all, perhaps this was his attempt at trying, too.