I open my mouth to say yes, then stop.
Do we? Without Georgia’s oversight, without her expertise guiding the process? What if the next archaeologist wants things done differently? What if we document things in a way that conflicts with their methods?
I have no clue. Compared to Georgia, I know next to nothing about the matter.
“We should wait,” I hear myself say. “Cover the site. Secure everything. Wait until we have proper leadership in place.”
“Cover it?” Yasmin looks shocked. “But we’re in the middle of?—”
“We’re in the middle of nothing without a qualified lead archaeologist!” I snap. “I’m not going to risk damaging the site or compromising the findings because we’re impatient.”
Isn’t that what Georgia said? That we couldn’t rush? That we needed patience?
I push the thought away.
“How long are we talking?” Dr. Akkhad asks carefully. “A week? Two?”
“Until I say otherwise.” My voice is firmer now. “This site has waited thousands of years. It can wait a few more weeks while we do this right.”
I clock the glances they exchange. Worried. Confused.
The irony of using Georgia’s own words isn’t lost on me, but I refuse to acknowledge it.
“So we just… stop?” Omar sounds lost. “All the work we’ve done, and we just halt everything?”
“We pause,” I correct. “There’s a difference. We’re being strategic. Waiting for the right moment to proceed.”
“Or the right person,” Edmond says quietly, and something in his tone suggests he’s not just talking about professional qualifications.
I ignore the implication. “That’s all,” I say. “Get started on those assignments. I’ll update you once I have responses from potential candidates.”
They file out slowly, casting worried glances at each other. I hear them murmuring as they leave, but I don’t care what they’re saying. I’m doing what’s necessary, making the practical decision. The site can’t move forward without proper leadership, so we wait. It’s as simple as that.
It has nothing to do with the uncomfortable feeling in my chest when I look at that tomb. Nothing to do with the empty space where Georgia’s tent used to be. Nothing to do with the fact that some of Ella’s toys are still scattered around the play area and I can’t bring myself to have someone pack them up.
This is about the project. About doing things right. About maintaining professional standards. That’s all.
It has to be.
Because the alternative, that I’m halting the project because moving forward without Georgia feels wrong, because the whole endeavor feels hollow without her passion and expertise, because I can’t stand to look at a love story carved in stone when I just drove away the only woman I’ve ever…
No.
I’m not going there.
I pull out my laptop and open a new email draft. Time to start reaching out to potential replacements. Time to move this project forward.
Georgia Halford, while talented, is not irreplaceable—both in the workplace and in my life.
CHAPTER 23
GEORGIA
It’s strange driving through my small town, down my street. I’ve only been away for a handful of weeks and yet it feels like I’ve lived a whole other lifetime.
I don’t know what I expected—for something to have changed while we were gone, some physical manifestation of how different everything feels. But no. My seaside cottage has the same weathered shingles, same lace curtains, same wooden deck overlooking the beach.
It’s like I never left. Like the past month was just a dream.
