‘In front of Nate fucking Daley,’ Laurel said, which set Rebecca off into further howls. Talk about a supportive best friend.
‘Oh, come on Laurel. That is absolutely hilarious, it’s the kind of stuff that only happens in films.’
Laurel allowed herself a little smile. ‘I suppose he won’t forget me in a hurry.’
‘Is he still hot? I can’t wait to see him, check out who my husband and my best friend are both into,’ Rebecca said. ‘Hang on.’ She held the phone away from her face while she shouted, ‘Lila, Micah! You’d better be putting those toys away! Okay, Laurel, go.’
‘Stop giving my niece and nephew a hard time.’ Laurel smiled. ‘And yes, he is still hot. But never tell him that. In fact, don’t even talk to him. I can’t have my brother and my best friend swooning over him.’
‘Why, because only you’re allowed to swoon over him?’ Rebecca teased.
‘Fuck off, Rebecca. He was a dick then, he’s a dick now, and that’s it. End of.’
‘Mmm hmm, I remember what you were like, Laurel, all moon-eyed and swoony.Ooooh Nathanial.’ And like she was five, Rebecca made smoochy kissy sounds down the phone. ‘Not that you ever talked to him.’
The fact that Rebecca knew Laurel so well, all her secrets and fears, her embarrassing moments and her deepest desires, was fine. Until now, when she was taking the piss relentlessly about a crush Laurel had had ten frigging years ago.
‘No, thank you,’ Laurel said. ‘Hey, I’ve got to go, I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Oh, Laurel, before you go, Fletcher family dinner at your dad’s on Sunday, I’m cooking, two o’clock.’
‘Alright, I’ll bring rice pudding.’ She could feel Rebecca rolling her eyes down the phone. ‘It’s Dad’s favourite, so shut up.’
‘Didn’t say anything! Okay, talk to you later, love you,’ Rebecca said, before ending the call.
Laurel flicked idly through Netflix. So what if Nate Daley had aged like a fine wine, and smelt like choppy seas and thunderstorms? So what if he was befriending her brother? So what if he was going to be in her back yard for the next few months.
It’s not like she would see him all the time, was it? Perhaps just in passing. Now and again.
Only when she had to inspect the farm and happen upon the site, and possibly catch a glimpse of him in those jeans that hugged his arse just right (yes, she’d seen, oh boy, she had seen), and that faded salmon dig top that makes his skin warm and seductive, and that stubble on his jawline, rugged and daring. Perhaps his hair would fall, unkempt, over his forehead and his brown eyes would look at her and really seeher. Not the her that was pimping the family farm out, the middle sister, the boring, business one, the one that had to sort everything out.
Perhaps he would see her as Laurel Helena Fletcher, person in her own right.
Who was she kidding? This was Nate Daley she was thinking about, of course he wouldn’t. He was a cold-hearted, weaselly coward ten years ago, and there was nothing to suggest that he had changed at all.
Except his eyes had changed, hadn’t they? They weren’t the bright light of youthful exuberance anymore. They’d lost their sparkle, become wary, careful, thoughtful.
What was she doing? Why was she thinking about Nate Daley’s eyes? Screw this, Laurel needed another glass of wine.
Nate
Harold had dug the trenches exactly how Nate wanted them. Exactly. To the millimetre, as shown on the plans he had provided, so all that posturing and ‘oh it can’t be done’ had been worth it.
The students were in varying states of filthiness. They quietly scraped, dusted and blew at the earth, uncovering its hidden secrets, the things that it had kept cocooned and warm for centuries until it was ready to give them up to his curious eyes.
Nate breathed in the scent of freshly turned dirt and the aniseed tang of cow parsley hidden by hedgerows. It was lush and verdant out here, so quintessentially English. He was surprised that the maypole wasn’t out.
Running a dig wasn’t messing around in the dirt all day, stealing back human treasures from the earth, but Nate wished it was. He gathered his paperwork from the put-up table. The summer breeze was a little too breezy, and no matter how he angled his laptop, he couldn’t see a damn thing with the glare bouncing off the screen. They hadn’t been granted enough funding for a dig tent – a large tent with flappy walls, electricity and lighting – so he was making do.
Or not, as the case may be.
‘I’m going to head down to the farm. You’ve got my number if anything interesting comes up, or if you have any questions,’ he called.
Anwar, a masters student, waved but the rest ignored him, intent on their own little patches of earth. He took a longing look at them, sighed, and closed the gate behind him.
Paperwork. Great.
Nate was the most senior staff member. He was running the dig. Ivor was supposed to be, but let’s face it, he was months from retirement.
