He reaches across her to flip back a page. Now Beauty perches on a branch, about to spring into the air. Another flip and she’s standing in a river, eyeing the shadow of a fish beneath the surface. Then she’s crouching over a clutch of speckled eggs, the detail so exquisite that tears spring to Ripley’s eyes.
She reaches for the next page, but Smithson stops her hand with his.
“Erm, that’s the last one.”
She’s never stood close enough that she could reach up and put her thumb into the divot in his lip before. Never looked into his eyes for more than a second or two. They’re tired today, heavy-lidded, the blue rims of his irises almost gray in the shade of the canyon. The hand he’s placed over hers feels good. Solid.
Her heart skids in her chest like it’s lost control on a curve.
He takes his hand away. “Sorry. I do keep some confidential work in this book, so…”
“Right.” Ripley looks down at where his index finger left a smudge of pencil across her knuckles. She has to fight the urge to cover it. To keep it.
He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses nervously. “What do you think?”
“These are…” She looks away, trying to pull herself together.
“I know I’ve assumed a great deal,” he says, speaking fast. “I thought because her phalanges were so like Cryptovolans but her ulna was still quite faithful to Bambiraptor, I might give her a phenotype somewhere in between. But if I was too presumptuous, Ripley—which I was, extremely presumptuous, and I’m very sorry—”
“Shut up, Smithson.”
“Ibegyour pardon.”
“Shutup.They’re amazing. They’re beautiful. She’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen, and…”
His shoulders drop, his chin lifting with relief. “And?”
“And it’syou.” He’s the mysterious artist who draws the most evocative renderings of ancient creatures she’s ever seen. “The posters. Your papers. It’s you.”
“Oh.” His face takes on a pinched air. “Yes. It’s a hobby of mine.Although I’d be obliged if you kept it between us. I do enjoy the luxury of anonymity.”
“You could do this for a living, you know.”
He tugs the book from her hands and flips it closed. “In my family, it’s understood that we give our lives to science.”
“In my experience as a medical-anatomy TA, people don’t usually donate themselves to science while they’re still alive.”
He huffs. “You are never more American than when you do this…bantering thing.”
“Ha. You hold your own, Professor. Would you draw Beauty for the Clever Girl Museum? A detail of the wing with the fossil elements superimposed and then a concept sketch of the rest of her?”
“There’ll be no need for drawings by an amateur,” Smithson says. “You can get a professional artist to sketch the complete skeleton. After you find the rest of her, of course.”
“The dig’s closing, Smithson. There’s no more time for discovery.”
He tucks the notebook under his arm. “Yes, there is,” he says, an exhausted, brilliant double curve breaking across his face. “We got the money.”
Ripley’s never been the type to scream with joy and leap into people’s arms.
But the canyon is echoing with a shriek she recognizes as her own. She’s also looking down the back of Smithson’s black hoodie, her arms around his shoulders and her knees hooked over his hips. “You’re a fucking genius. Agenius,” she repeats.
He laughs, one arm under her ass and one around her back,pulling her hard against him. He tucks his head against her shoulder and presses the cool shell of his ear into her neck. “You don’t mean that,” he mumbles, but she can tell he’s pleased.
“I absolutely mean the hell out of that. Holy shit. Holy shit!” she yells, turning her face to the sky. “I could kiss you right now, Smithson. In fact…” She impulsively aims for his temple.
“In fact what?” he asks, lifting his head at the exact wrong moment. Ripley’s mouth makes landfall a millimeter away from his double-curved grin.
It was meant to be quick. She’s already pulled away. Their mouths didn’t even touch.
