And he’s gone. Donovan peels off, already addressing a staff member and walking the other direction. Well, okay, then. I get checked in and spend thirty minutes hauling my equipment inside.
Gear covers every flat surface in the cabin. It’s piled up on the rocking chair in the corner and spread out across the quilt on my bed. I might have over-packed, but I’m not making the trek back to DC just because my rebreather craps out.
I’m tempted to head straight out and start doing some survey work, but my stomach growls. It’s already five o’clock. I might be eating with the early bird crowd, but the more I think about it, the better it sounds. Without the usual enticement of seeing Corinne at my 8 am lectures, the prospect of waking up early is quite a bit less appealing, but if I get an early start tomorrow, the lake will be empty.
I make my way across the property. Lush, rolling hills and tall trees stretch out beyond the property. Endless, or at least seemingly endless, wilderness. The silence is almost unnerving. I’m used to my Dupont townhome, with its stream of traffic driving by at all hours. At night, I sleep to a lullaby composed of sirens, honking, and yelling bar hoppers.
Out here, it’s just crickets. Literally. Well, crickets, cicadas, and the loud-as-shit little Virginia tree frogs. Still, it feels like a different world out here.
I hop up the back steps of the main building. Rustic stonework, original from the 1930s, gives the impression of stepping back in time. I ask the hostess for a seat on the patio, because after the sweltering hell of DC in July, the cool mountain air is a welcome reprieve.
She shows me to a table overlooking the heart of the property. Families sit in little clusters, enjoying picnics and lawn games. People stroll by, towels over their shoulders as they head for the pool and the lake. I order a beer, but then I’m left to stew in my own thoughts. Thoughts that quickly turn to Corinne.
I can’t help it. I wonder if she’d like it here. Considering the way she came into the lab last week, cursing the double-decker buses full of tourists, I’d guess so. Or the time the metro air wasn’t working properly, and she got to the lab and immediately stripped down to the tiny black tank top she had on underneath her blouse while muttering French swears so filthy they’d make a sailor blush.
I swear to god, I can hear her laugh. I must be losing it. I’ll start hallucinating her face on every woman I see next. Staring at the empty seat across from me, I wish she was in it. It would be worth the scandal. At least, it would be worth it to me. But after watching Corinne work so hard over the last four years, the idea of someone saying she slept with professors to ‘earn’ her A’s makes my blood boil.
“Alright, here’s your locally distilled whiskey… and that is your chardonnay.” Jesus, even the waitress behind me sounds like her. Maybe I really do need help. No, I just need to focus on work. Anomalous water levels. Anomalous water levels. Anomalous water levels. Yeah, I can’t get beyond that.
“One Blue Ridge Bourbon-barrel stout—” There’s her voice again. I shake my head, trying to chase the ghost of her out of my brain, but a sharp, shattering crash comes from just behind my elbow. I whip around. Shards of glass are shattered around my feet. The beer, no longer contained inside its vessel, spreads across the flagstone, foaming as it runs along the path of least resistance, and spilling down the stone wall to the rose trellis below.
“Are you o—” I push my chair back, standing to help, but my words catch in my throat as the parade of muttered curses reaches my ears.
“Putain de bordel de merde.” Glass scrapes on the flagstone as someone starts picking it up. “I am so sorry. I’ll be right back with another—”
My heart pounds in my chest; pounds so hard it hurts. I’ve officially gone nutty. Someone needs to lock me up. I must have lost touch on reality, because the eyes that meet mine aren’t just blue. They’re the exact shade of my rare aqua blue obsidian sample. Shimmering hair, dark as black tourmaline, is pulled into a bouncy ponytail.
I’m not imagining things. Corinne is kneeling in front of me, staring up at my face through her long, dark lashes. The pouty lips I’ve imagined running my thumb over a million times are parted in shock.
“Dr. Napier?” Her voice sends a shiver up my spine, one that makes my dick twitch. Maybe having her face at crotch height is a bad idea. I hold out a hand to help her up.
Or a really, reaaaaaaally good idea. The devil on my shoulder prods me with his pitchfork. Think how pretty her lips would be wrapped around your cock. Think how you could make her moan around it…
Thank fuck she takes my hand and gets back to her feet. But my brain won’t stop the spiral of filthy ideas. I’m usually prepared to see her. I can get my head straight beforehand. Even when we’ve crossed paths on or near campus, I knew it was a possibility. Out here, with my defenses completely down? I’m fucked.
“Cor—Ms. Palomer?”
Her lips quirk into a subtle smile. “So you can almost say my first name.”
I open my mouth, but what do you say when just a half-smile makes your heart beat double-time? I’m in love with you, is completely off the table. “You’re working here?” The words come out of my mouth and I immediately wish I could stab myself in the eye. Of course, she’s working here. She’s not handing out drinks in a white button down just for fun.
“Yeah…” her eyebrows scrunch and, for just a second, it looks like she’s going to say something, but then the little lines disappear and she loses that hint of a smile. “I’ll be right back with a fresh beer. I’m really sorry if I got any of it on you, Dr. Napier.”
4
CORINNE
“Bete, bete, bete,” I mutter under my breath as I hurry away from Dr. Napier’s table. Stupid, stupid, stupid. For one infinitesimal fraction of a second, I thought maybe he was excited to see me. That he knew I’d be here. Une bêtise. How foolish can I be?
I dump the glass in the bin, wash my hands and pour another beer. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to find my center, but that bitch took off like a rocket with a drunk pilot. Centering just isn’t going to happen. Not today or any other day, as long as Dr. Napier is nearby.
A chef walks behind the bar, giving me a questioning look as she pulls a bottle of bourbon off the wall. “You okay, new girl? You look shaky.” Her crisp white coat is embroidered with Nora Pritchett, and below that, the title Executive Chef is spelled out in block letters. I’ve worked enough events to know I shouldn’t let her catch me slacking.
“Yes, chef. I just broke a glass.”
“Ah…” she opens the top and sniffs it, wrinkling her nose and putting it back before taking one higher up. “Well, don’t sweat it. It happens to the best of us.” The second bottle seems to suit her needs, but she holds it out in front of me. “Are you getting a hint of cinnamon?”
I sniff the liquor and blink rapidly. All I get is oak and booze. “It just smells like bourbon.” I wince and shrug my shoulders. She waves a hand over the open top, wafting the scent in my direction. Sure enough, a hint of fall spice sneaks through under the eye-watering alcohol. “Oh. Yeah. I do.”