But as I go through the bedtime routine of cleaning sandy hands, changing into pajamas, reading stories and singing lullabies, I keep thinking about what just happened. Not the scare of losing Ella, though that will probably give me nightmares. But Calvin. The way he stayed calm when I was panicking. The way he found her so quickly, so efficiently. The way he comforted me instead of criticizing.
The genuine apology.
This is a different man from the one who showed up at my cottage in Maine. Different from the one who panicked in the sandstorm and snapped about a sippy cup.
He’s still a tad intense and probably too invested in this project, but maybe there’s more to Calvin Aarons than I gave him credit for. Maybe underneath all that armor is someone worth knowing.
After Mike, after learning how badly I can misjudge people, I should be running in the opposite direction from any hint of attraction or connection. But as Ella finally drifts off to sleep, and I sit in the quiet darkness of our tent, I find myself thinking about Calvin’s hands on my shoulders. About his voice, steady and sure. About the way he looked at me like I mattered.
And how I could have stayed lost in that gaze until the end of time.
CHAPTER 15
CALVIN
It’s past eleven when I realize I’m still sitting in the documentation tent, staring at photographs of pottery fragments by the light of a battery-powered lantern.
I should go to bed. Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day of excavation. But I’m wired, my mind racing with the implications of Georgia’s mapping discovery. If she’s right—and she usually is—we’re close. So close to finding the main temple structure.
“Still working?”
I look up to find Georgia in the tent entrance, backlit by moonlight. She’s changed into clean clothes, her hair down for once, falling in waves around her shoulders.
“Could ask you the same thing,” I say.
“Ella finally crashed. Took three stories and two lullabies, but she’s out.” Georgia walks over to the work table, looking at the spread of photographs and reference materials. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Couldn’t stop thinking about the mapping system. There are implications I’m still working through.”
“Same.” She settles into the chair across from me, pulling one of the photographs closer. “I keep seeing patterns, but I’m not sure if they’re real or if I’m just tired and seeing what I want to see.”
“Show me.”
For the next twenty minutes, we discuss the pottery markings, comparing them to maps and surveys. Georgia traces patterns with her finger, explaining her reasoning, and I follow along, asking questions, offering observations.
It’s the easiest conversation we’ve had. No tension. No defensiveness. Just two people absorbed in solving a puzzle together.
“Here,” she says, pointing to a cluster of symbols. “I think this represents a water source. But water sources shift over thousands of years, so I need to figure out where it would have been during the temple period.”
She sits back, rubbing her eyes. “This is going to take forever.”
“But you love it.”
“What?”
“This. The puzzle. The slow reveal of information. You love it.” I gesture at the materials spread before us. “I can see it in your face when you’re working. You light up.”
Georgia blinks, surprised. “I… yeah. I do love it. Even when it’s frustrating, even when it takes forever, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.”
“That’s rare. Most people never find that.”
“Haveyou? Found what you love?”
The question catches me off guard. “I thought I had. Building the company, making deals, acquisitions. I’m good at it.”
“That’s not the same as loving it.”
“No,” I admit. “It’s not.”
