Jordin hurries away. “I’d hate to see her at the beach,” Ripley mutters. “She probably tries to hold back the tide.”
Smithson looks at Jordin’s retreating figure, then at Ripley. He has a way of making her feel like he’s genuinely taking her perspective. Like he’s standing at her shoulder without thinking about how he can step in front of her.
“It’s not easy to be away when disaster might be happening. The crew needs your reassurance more than anything.”
“You make it sound like I’m their mom.”
“You are, in a way. They want to do good work for you. They want you to be proud of them.”
Ripley makes a noncommittal sound. “I think you’re the president of the parental-pride department these days, Professor.”
“They’re infatuated with me, perhaps. When they have real problems, it’s you they want.”
Not for the first time, Ripley wishes her pleasure in his praise wasn’t so obvious: the flushed cheeks, the grin she can’t quite stifle. He’s good at compliments. She shouldn’t like that he notices what she’s doing and who she talks to. She shouldn’t wonder what else he notices.
“They’re good kids,” she says, trying to be cool.
“They are. So…Canada.” He says it mildly, but his body is tense, elbows cocked like his hands are planning a jailbreak from his pockets.
“Yeah,” she says. “Kind of a last-minute decision.”
“It was my impression we would be working on the investigation at weekends. Together.”
“Yes, but this weekend is the Fourth. No one’s checking their voicemail, because everyone will be some combination ofsunburned, hungover, and sleep-deprived for the next ninety-six hours. And your paleobotanist friend is coming next weekend. I figure now’s the time to go see Charlie.”
“Ah.” He takes a beat. “Charlie is…a friend?” His face is glassy and reflective like the surface of the ocean at sunset, except for a muscle flexing in his cheek. Ripley can’t stop looking at it.
“CharlieBassa,” she says. “In Drumheller.”
His jaw unclenches. “Dr.Bassa.Of course,” he says, and makes a little sound likeha.“He’s still at the Royal Tyrrell?”
“Yes, and he’s still a distinguished expert. Archaeoraptor doesn’t change that.” Charlie’s career never quite recovered from his support for the infamous “Piltdown Chicken,” even after he admitted he’d been fooled and then worked to discredit the fraud.
“His experience with hoaxes could be useful,” Smithson says, brows drawing down thoughtfully. “When do we leave?”
She laughs incredulously. “You donothave to come on a nonessential seven-hour car trip, Smithson. I wouldn’t put you through that.”
Also, seven hours in a car with him. His fingers would brush hers sooner or later. They’d both go to adjust the stereo at the same time, or he’d open her drink before passing it over. He’d stretch his shoulders; roll his neck; maybe even fall asleep. His face would be unguarded, his body slack and tender.
The fact that shewantsto glance over, see him sleeping, and turn the music down is precisely why he shouldn’t come. The reasons she needs to keep things professional with him haven’t changed, even if she’s having trouble remembering them sometimes.
She puts a hand on his arm, intending to talk him down. “It was my idea. I didn’t clear it with you. I know you don’t like cars.”
“Well, I can hardly cycle there,” he points out. “It’s a touch farther than my usual commute from Regent’s Park to St. Albans.”
“You bike aroundLondon?” Ripley asks, horrified.
“It’s rather a lovely city for cycling, actually.” He hesitates, then adds, “London is a superb destination for paleontology. There really is nothing like the feeling of walking into the research collection at the Natural History Museum.” He’s wearing his inscrutable look again, like he’s dropping a line and waiting for her to bite.
“We’re getting off topic. I don’t want you to endure fourteen hours in a car for a one-hour conversation.”
“But if the car were no object, would youwantme to come?” He’s examining her face the way he looked at the bones in the Clever Girl Museum, as if he’s cataloging every tiny reaction. His eyes look like Montana, brown and green and blue together. There’s no way she can lie to him when he’s looking at her like this.
“You’re relentless,” she says, a little desperately. “Yes, okay? I’d want you there. But—”
“Then I’ll come.”
“Smithson—”
