“No!” He winces. “I mean, not on my account. Not that I’m—never mind.” He makes a face that saysThat went poorly.
“Can I come in?” Ripley’s rules forbid her to enter his cabin, but the sun has gotten its hands on a nail gun and is brandishing it at her skull. She can’t stand here under all this weather.
“Of course. Please.” He rises to sweep the papers into a stack, then seems to realize he’s implied she should sit on the bed.
She’s seen him blush before, but nothing like this shade of crimson. When he’s surprised or upset, he blanches; the deep blush must be…something else.
“It’s fine, Smithson. I’m not going to burst into flames if I—okay, suit yourself,” she says as he sits on the bed and waves her into the chair.
They sit there, tense, although Smithson wins the stiffness Olympics easily.
She gathers her courage. “I apologize for any, um, weirdness last night.”
His cheeks aresored. “I’d hardly say anything strange happened.” He touches his mouth, an odd look on his face.
A blurry image surfaces: herself in the jeep thinking she’d liketo push her thumb into the divot in his lip. “Did I…” She touches her thumb to her own lower lip.
“It was nothing. As I said,” he replies, strangely hoarse.
“Well, I’m sorry for anynothingI did last night.” Oh God, she sounds like a form letter. “I’d rather you and I were friends.”
“Friends,” Smithson says, something indecipherable in his tone. It should be impossible for him to sit any straighter, but he manages.
“Or colleagues?” she says, feeling like she might have gone too far.
“Colleagues.” He flicks a corner of his papers with one thumb. She sticks her spoon into her hardening oatmeal, which she realizes she’s brought all the way here.
“So, I thought we—” she starts.
“Did you need something—”
Jesus.After her stupid not-a-sex-dream, him asking if sheneedssomething sends heat smashing into her cheeks. “No! I mean, no, thank you. I thought we should get going on the investigation.”
A faint V forms between the wings of his eyebrows. “I thought you’d prefer to wait until the contract is signed.”
“We can hammer a few things out before you leave. When is that, by the way?”
“Oh,” he says. “I rather thought I could, erm, continue to be helpful on the dig.”
Ripley frowns. “I thought you were a visiting professor at Berkeley.”
“I am, but the appointment is part-time, and it’s summer, and their virtual teaching capabilities are excellent, so…” He tugs at his collar. “If I would be a distraction, naturally I’ll leave. But I…” He glances down at the paper, tracing the branching lines withone finger. His boyish, uncertain expression is both extremely appealing and somehow cracking Ripley’s heart in half. “I’m getting a lot of work done. Good work. It’s been very difficult for—”
He goes on, but it’s Cara’s voice Ripley hears:Don’t sweep him out of here the way you do to people who get too close to you.
She used to have a solid friend group. Grad school was more or less a hostage situation, the mutual suffering inevitably drawing people close. After she left, her paleontology connections turned awkward and petered out. It’s been years since she’s had a bestie or even been in a group text.
She tries to remember when Cara’s birthday is and can’t be more specific than “winter.”
Ripley closes her eyes. She’s the problem. It’s her.
“Ripley?” She opens her eyes and Smithson’s staring at her expectantly, an arm in the air like he’s been sketching imaginary taxonomies.
“Sorry. I was, um, thinking.”
His enthusiastic expression wilts, his arm sinking back to his side. With one finger, he solemnly resettles his glasses higher on his nose. “Understood. I’ll need a day to arrange my travel, if that suits—”
“Stop, stop. My brain is just slow today.” She presses her fingers to the pounding spot above her eyebrows. “You don’t have to dig. I can give you evenings for the investigation, plus any bad-weather days. If you want to help, I’d say you excavate maybe half as fast as me. So for every hour you dig, I’ll give an extra half hour to the investigation. Sound fair?”
