And I try. I really do. Dr. Napier shares his folders with me and we divide the lake files, going over the imaging with a fine-tooth comb. Despite my very best efforts, I can’t help watching him work. He sits on the bed, giving me the desk. Now and then I swear I can feel his eyes on me, but when I glance up, he has his eyes on his own work.
We work late into the night, and a little after one am I glance over and catch Dr. Napier nodding off. I keep going, determined to finish the set of files I’m poring over. By three am, my eyes are burning. I have to keep blinking, and at some point I can’t keep open them any longer. I rest my head on the desk for just a second. The next thing I know. Dr. Napier is trying to shake me awake.
“No,” I grumble, not ready to open my eyes.
He chuckles near my shoulder, the sound warm and deep. “You can’t sleep like that all night.”
“Watch me,” I mumble back. “Do you have any idea now many nights I slept at my desk over the last four years? Most of those were your fault, too.”
“Well, I’m sorry to cause so many sleepless nights, but you can take the bed.” I’m still too groggy to function, but I give in, letting him steer me toward the bed.The second I hit the mattress, I’m out like a light all over again.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.A sharp rapping sound pops the fluffy bubble of sleep I’m cocooned in. Clearly, someone is looking for a new mortal enemy.
“Go away,” a gruff voice calls out.
That wakes me up. Shooting upright. I peer around the space. I’m alone, in a great big bed, with a forest green quilt tucked in around me. But across the room, Dr. Napier is sleeping in the desk chair.
‘Sleeping’ might be generous, though. Lounging awkwardly might be a better descriptor. He has his feet kicked up on the desk, our computers stacked to the side. A hat covers his face, blocking out the morning light, and he has a thin blanket thrown over him.
Well, that looks fucking miserable. Then it clicks - he gave me his bed. I don’t know whether to be grateful for the act of chivalry, or annoyed that he’d go to such lengths and discomfort, to stay as far from me as he can. He could have slept on the other side. I’m a grown ass woman. I can keep my hands to myself and we both know he wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.
I sigh and climb out of bed to investigate the tapping, which still hasn’t let up. It’s only once I peek outside and see the occupant of the closest tree that I realize my new mortal enemy is, in fact, a very noisy wood pecker. I shut the door, and when I turn around, Dr. Napier is awake. He grumbles as he straightens his legs and gets to his feet, stretching thick arms over his head.
“Morning,” he says, barely meeting my eye. “Thank you for the help last night.”
“Yeah. No problem.” I nod, desperately trying to ignore the place where his shirt ends. Because when he lifts his arms like that, it’s almost impossible to ignore the thickly muscled torso he hides under dress shirts. That, and the ‘v’ of thick, corded muscle that draws the eye down to dangerous territory.
“I should get going,” I say, gathering my laptop and keys. Dr. Napier nods, watching me with his hands on his hips as I slip my shoes on. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression is unsettled.
I can’t help feeling like I did something wrong. Obviously, I didn’t mean to fall asleep in his cabin. But if he’s mad at me about it, I wish he would have just shaken me awake and sent me back to my cabin. Then again, he just woke up after minimal sleep in a hard wooden chair. That wouldn’t put anyone in a good mood.
***
Tending bar when there are secrets under that lake is bad enough, but knowing Dr. Napier is out there too, probably all hot and sweaty, a special kind of hell. And even though I didn’t spot him out on the water today, I’m reasonably sure he is out there, unless he’s decided to turn his considerable brain power to the shuffleboard tournament...
The second my shift is over, I head toward the lake, curious to see what he might have found. I pass by dance lessons in the pavilion, a very rowdy game of corn hole, and a watermelon-eating contest that seems to have gone off the rails a bit. All the commotion might explain why I don’t notice the pile of gear sitting unattended near the shoreline until I’m almost on top of it.
My heart rate picks up the closer I get, because, to me, that looks like dive gear. As in, ‘put this mask on your face and take your air with you, because if you run out, you’re royally fucked’ dive gear. I recognize some of it from the semester I spent in Dr. Napier’s field research class, but that doesn’t settle my nerves one bit. Because if his gear is here, where in the fresh hell is he?
There are no fins on the shore, no mask or snorkel either. There is, however, an empty dive mask case. I scan the lake again, sure that he can’t possibly be diving alone. Even in forty or fifty feet of fresh water with no large predators to contend with, it’s still a stupid thing to do. And considering he’s the one who drilled field safety into our brains for three weeks straight, I know he knows better.
Rule number one: use the buddy system unless you want to die.
A large bubble erupts from the south side of the lake. All I can picture in my panic-stricken brain is the man I’ve silently loved for years being sucked into a hole in the earth, never to be seen again.
“Shit-shit-shit-Putain-de-bordel-de-merde!” I dig through the equipment, locating a small rebreather. It’s not made for hours of diving, at least not on its own, but after scanning the beach, hoping to find something - anything - that will let me get down there to help him, I have to admit it’s my only option.
“This is fine,” I mutter to myself. “Totally fine.” I’ve used a rebreather. Once. But I don’t really have any other options and I’m not just going to stand here while he’s potentially dying. “A stupid plan is better than nothing… I hope.”
There isn’t an extra mask in the gear, but there is a family playing in the sand just down the beach, and one of the kids is wearing goggles. I grab the rebreather and set off toward them at a full sprint, praying Dr. Napier isn’t already dead.
The sight of a fully uniformed bartender charging toward them while trying to fasten herself into scuba equipment has not escaped their notice. The mother yells at her kids, calling them to her, and probably assuming I’m some kind of maniac. Not that I blame her.
“Ma’am, can I borrow those goggles?” I call out, pointing at the kid hiding behind her. “Please, it’s an emergency!” I kick my shoes off and unbutton my pants. I’m a decent swimmer, but not with thick cotton slacks on. The woman looks like she might deck me if I get too close, but she reaches back, pulling the goggles off of her kid, and tosses them to me.
“Thank you!” I pull them on as fast as I can, knowing full well I’ve already wasted too much time. Wading out into the chilly water in my underwear, a white button down, and blue shark-themed children’s goggles is probably not my most elegant moment, but it beats the shit out of sitting on the beach and having a cry.
I get thigh deep, shove the mouthpiece of the rebreather between my teeth, and dive in. I swim toward the south side of the lake, but before I get very far, the sound of something else breaking the surface of the water reaches my ears. I turn, and just a handful of yards from where I found Dr. Napier’s gear, I see him. He kicks along at a leisurely pace, completely unaware that he nearly scared me to death.