With great effort, Alisha pulled her lips into a scant curve she hoped passed for a polite smile. Her roving eyes finally snagged on her hoodie, underneath the bench. While Bridget inspected the rainbow-hued assortment of elastic bands that hung from the pull-up bar, Alisha dived for her sweatshirt and scrambled to put it on.
But when she pulled the hoodie over her head, it loosened her ponytail holder. Half her twists tumbled over her face, and the other half hung absurdly to the side, still trapped in the hair tie, an eighties music video gone wrong.
Someone cleared their throat, and Alisha emerged like Punxsutawney Phil from the neck of her hoodie to find Quentin about a foot in front of her. He wore an olive-green utility jacket and jeans, a battered tool bag rucked over his shoulder, and those same leather work boots she remembered all too well. The cover model forGQ, Hunks of Academia edition.
Words escaped Alisha. All of them. Instead of greeting him, she yanked at her hair tie in a last-ditch effort to regain her composure. But jeez Louise, the hair band remained tangled in her twists, and she spun in a slow and tragic circle trying to free it, like a pony being tugged by its bridle.Wonderful.
“Here, let me help you.” Bridget’s golden eyes swam into view, and she stepped around to pull off the hood. She gently freed Alisha’s twists, then handed her the ponytail holder. Her eyes said,Been there, but Alisha couldn’t picture a world where that was true.
Dredging up gratitude, she muttered, “Thanks.”
Quentin, who watched this whole performance with an expression somewhere between confusion, pity, and—screw him—amusement, now spoke up. “Sorry to drop in on you like this; we expected more traffic.” He chewed his lip, telegraphing an apology with his eyes, whether for her pride or their arrival ahead of schedule, she wasn’t sure.
“Oh no, it’s fine.” Alisha’s voice came out a few octaves higher than normal. She forgot to breathe for a second, rolling the hair tie in her fingers. “You must be dying to get out there and see the dinosaur. Er, the fossils. The bones.” She slipped the hair tie onto her wrist and wrestled a smile onto her face. “In the backyard, I mean. Unless the rain is an issue?”
Too late, she fisted her hands in her hoodie pocket, lifting up the baggy fabric so her shorts were visible. Naked weight lifting wasn’t a skill set she wanted on her résumé.
“I think we can handle a little rain, right, Quentin?” Bridget blinked up at him, maybe wondering why he’d gone silent.
Held under his colleague’s gaze, Quentin opened his mouth, then closed it again. He ran a hand under the strap of the tool bag and shuffled his feet. The women waited.
“Yeah, looks like it’s letting up,” he finally said.
They all squinted out into the gray mist for a few seconds, motionless. The dam of awkwardness filled to the brim and overflowed rightalong with the gutters. Alisha couldn’t remember a time in her life when she’d wished harder for the power of teleportation. Or time travel, to go back and erase the past ten minutes.
Since no DeLorean or portkey materialized, she crossed one ankle over the other. In this unstable position, with muscles wobbly from exertion, she nearly toppled over when Quentin turned her way again.
His gaze flicked down to her body, once. He turned toward his colleague. “How about I show you and Cait the field site now, in case this rain gets worse. Then, once the guys arrive, we’ll come in to do introductions. Is that okay?” He addressed the last question to Alisha, not quite meeting her eyes.
That tragic, huh?She let her shoulders fall and rubbed chalky palms down her thighs. “Sure. I’ll go let my grandparents know you’re here.”
The paleontologists nodded at her, then headed back out. As he cast a glance over his shoulder, Quentin tripped over a kettlebell, but he recovered in a snap and half jogged out into the drizzle.
Well. That could’ve gone worse. She could’ve set the kitchen on fire.
CHAPTER 12
ALISHA
Alisha ladled sauce into the last plastic cup. At the cooktop, Hank shook shredded Gruyère into the pot of macaroni and cheese.
Meg emerged from the walk-in fridge with a jug of coleslaw and kicked the door closed with her heel. “Ready to charm the pants off Hottie Harris, PhD?”
The tiny tub of barbecue sauce went pinballing across the counter and ricocheted off the wall, splattering sauce all over her apron. She shot a glare at Meg and jerked her chin in Hank’s direction. He shoved the sleeves of his checkered shirt farther up over his elbows and started humming. Loudly.
“Sorry,” Meg mouthed.
Alisha just shook her head. Working alongside her best friend during the summer months didn’t normally involve getting called out in front of the other employees. Though she couldn’t blame Meg for overlooking Hank’s presence. He was as permanent a fixture as the antique cash register out front.
Meg grabbed a foil pan full of ribs and backed out the door. “You go ahead with the coleslaw; I’m going to start loading the food into your car.”
“No hurry,” Alisha called after her. Maybe if they took long enough packing up lunch, the paleontologists would get tired of waiting and grab sandwiches from Stella’s Deli instead.
Gnawing on her lip, Alisha scribbled “Brisket” on the lid of a foil tray. Equal parts mortified about her fumbling reintroduction to Quentin and petrified to face him again, she’d managed to avoid the crew entirely. Despite her curiosity about the excavation, she hadn’t so much as peeked out the window all week for fear of being spotted.
“Awful nice of your grandpa to feed those geologists.” Hank slid a foil pan off the wire rack and spooned steaming mac and cheese into it. “A big nuisance, if you ask me, them poking around.”
They’d decided to tell everyone that the crew from CNU was doing a geological survey, not excavating dinosaur fossils. Less intrigue, hopefully less interest and potential for exposure.
