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I wave back as he walks away.
Standing on the small mat in front of the entrance, I unlace my boots, balancing on one leg then the other, and hook them onto the wooden stakes. Shoes stashed, I repeat the ritual from last night: spray the air with repellent, rush inside, close the rainproof flaps, and collapse on the cot.
* * *
The next day, I don’t bother following the guys in their fight against the thicket. Sorry, but there’s only so many pictures one can take of dudes handling a machete. So it’s not the alarm that displaces me from my tent, but rather the suffocating heat levels the interior reaches by mid-morning.
After a quick breakfast, I swap jungle trekking with helping Tucker manage the camp. And when Somchai gets back from the village, I help him unload the mule and care for the animal.
In the afternoon, Tucker and I go for a bath, escorted by Montgomery. “Showering”, even if I have to do it while wearing a bikini, is the highlight of my day. The water is crisp but not too cold, and a great relief from the oppressive heat of the jungle. Plus, we find a wide, flat rock where we can sunbathe. Without any snakes or wild animals in sight, the soldier leaves us his rifle and he, too, takes a dip in the river.
When the main crew gets back, the general mood isn’t much improved. But Logan seems resigned to having to be patient, so dinner goes more smoothly than yesterday, and without Satan berating anyone. Then we go to bed, wake up, and the cycle starts anew in the morning.
Over the next few days, we settle into a routine. Sometimes I follow the guys inland, other times I stay back and help Tucker. The days go by swiftly and, before I know it, an entire week has passed.
That’s when disaster strikes.
Our slow but steady progress in the jungle comes to an abrupt stop when we find a wall of solid rock in our path. Short of blowing the embankment off—and we obviously can’t since we’re in a natural reserve—there’s no obvious way forward. With half the day already gone, we retrace our steps back to the base early. Tomorrow, Archie will have to deploy the drone and scout for an alternative route around the obstacle.
But today, everyone takes advantage of the unexpected break. That is, everyone except Logan. I’m walking across the camp to join the others at the river when I spot him bent over a map, studying it intently. He’s standing under the tarp, but the sun rays are already low enough to filter underneath horizontally. The light is perfect. It hits Logan’s face just right, accentuating the planes and rises of his features. The warm rays crown his disheveled brown hair, giving him a glowing golden halo. The bastard has never looked more handsome.
So unfair.
Cheekbones like that are such a waste on Satan.
Still, the photographer in me can’t resist. Of their own volition, my hands reach for the camera slung around my neck and I snap one shot after the other. I capture the small frown of his brows, the barely-there dimple of his chin, the concentrated pout of his lips, the cute freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks… I’m in his thrall. I can’t stop.
Suddenly, smoldering green eyes stare directly at me, threatening to smash the camera’s lens with the force of their glare.
Click.
This is going to be one fierce shot.
I lower my camera and meet Logan’s unfiltered scowl.
“Are you taking my picture?” he demands.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep cool, but feeling my cheeks already heating.
“Why?”
“It’s my job,” I snap.
“To take my picture?”
“To document everything. You were standing in a beautiful pose.”
He seems surprised and scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, sorry, I don’t like to have my picture taken.”
I hear the word sorry, but somehow I only get madder. “But of course you hate pictures. Have it your way, but don’t come to me when you need a cover for your book.”
“What book?”
“The one you’re going to write once we find the lost city, of course.”
He looks like he wants to be mad, but a smile sneaks onto his face anyway. “You’re so sure we’re going to find it?”
“Not a doubt in my mind.”
