We sit in comfortable silence for a moment.
“What about Henry?” I ask. “What was he like?”
Georgia’s face transforms, sadness and fondness mixing together. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. But also scattered. He’d get so absorbed in his theories that he’d forget to eat. I’d find him in his office at midnight, surrounded by papers, still working on some problem.”
“Sounds familiar,” I tease gently.
“I learned from the best.” She traces a pattern on the table with her free hand. “He was the first person who really saw me. Not as my parents’ daughter, not as a prodigy to be shaped and molded, but as myself. He asked what I thought, what I wanted, what fascinated me. And then he listened. Really listened.”
“That’s what good mentors do.”
“He was more than a mentor, though. He was… he was family. The family I chose. When he died, I felt like I’d lost the person who understood me best in the world.”
“I know that feeling.” Our eyes meet. “When my grandmother died, it was like losing my anchor.”
“And now you’re here, honoring her memory. Finding what she always talked about.”
“Because of you,” I point out. “You’re the one making the discoveries. Proving the theories. Doing the brilliant work.”
“We’re doing it together,” she corrects. “This whole team.”
“But especially you.” I turn my hand over so our palms are pressed together. “I was so stupid when we started. Hovering, micromanaging, making everything harder than it needed to be. You could have quit. Probably should have.”
“The thought crossed my mind,” she admits with a small smile. “Especially after the sandstorm incident.”
“I was an ass.”
“You were scared.”
“I was an ass,” I insist. “But you called me out. You didn’t let me get away with it. And you kept doing excellent work despite me being difficult.”
“Well, you’ve gotten significantly less difficult.” Her thumb strokes across my palm, sending sparks up my arm.
We’re sitting very close now. I’m not sure when that happened, but I can count the freckles scattered across her nose from the three weeks under the desert sun.
“Calvin,” she says softly.
“Georgia.”
“I’m really glad I came here.” Her smile is gentle. “You’re not who I thought you were. When you showed up at my cottage, I saw a rich guy who thought he could buy anything. But you’re not that. You’re complex and thoughtful and surprisingly good with toddlers.”
“You’re not whoIthought you were either. I saw your lecture videos and thought you were brilliant but impractical. Too focused on intuition, not enough on data. But you’re both. Youfollow your instincts but back them up with meticulous work. You’re disciplined and creative at the same time.”
“We’re quite the pair,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.” My hand comes up to cup her face. “We are.”
The kiss feels inevitable. Like we’ve been moving toward this moment all evening. Her lips are soft against mine, and touching her, I feel like I’ve suddenly become weightless.
We kiss for a long time, the maps and pottery photographs forgotten. At some point I pull her onto my lap, and she comes willingly, her fingers threading through my hair.
“We’re still in the documentation tent,” she murmurs against my lips. “Anyone could walk in.”
“Then maybe we should go somewhere more private.”
She pulls back to look at me, and I can see the desire in her eyes mixed with uncertainty. “Are you sure?” she asks.
“I’m sure. Areyou?”
