Someone to take his bags? This was not a hotel. She was not providing a concierge service here. In fact, Laurel had done the dig team a massive favour by letting them have the bunkhouse for a few months. Sure, the farm was getting paid for it, but it was a discounted rate and barely covered costs. Otherwise, they’d have to find their own accommodation in the tiny village of Little Houghton up the road. Or camp. For weeks. So yeah, a favour indeed.
‘Oh, Lauren, you remember Dr Daley, don’t you?’ Professor Rowlands polished his glasses on the edge of his blazer.
The blood drained from Laurel’s face. Daley?
How had she not known that he would be here? How had she not known that he even worked with Professor Rowlands? She raked her eyes over the spreadsheet in her hands. Nope, DR NATHANIAL DALEY was not printed in neat Times New Roman on there.
Laurel couldn’t believe she’d not seen him among the throng of wide-eyed, bright young things. He was taller than everyone, for a start, and completely ridiculous in dark blue suit trousers, a shirt and walking boots that he had obviously changed into on the bus. The students were parting for him like he was the Second Coming, eagerly awaiting the briefest touch of his archaeological genius.
Since when had that scruffy, sparkling eyed postgrad become aDoctor?
Nate was heading toward her and, like a proper person, she should just say, ‘Hi, nice to see you again.’ But no. She was caught off guard, hadn’t planned for this, and therefore couldn’t possibly make any decisions or hide her absolute mortification. So, she span on her heel and closed her eyes. Because, obviously, if she couldn’t see him, he wasn’t there.
‘Is it Lauren?’ Nate was talking, directly behind her.
Directly. Behind. Her.
Why did he have to be so close? Could he not invade her personal space?
‘I thought it was Laurel?’ He said to the back of her head.
Blinking a couple of times, Laurel pasted on a close-lipped smile and glanced down at the clipboard again for fortification.
‘Yes,’ she said as she turned. ‘It’s Laurel.’
Holy shit.
Ten years had been good to Nate Daley. His lankiness had filled out into the toned athleticism of someone who didn’t work out but was always restlessly on the move. That black hair was nearly needing a trim, and waved casually over his forehead, with that speckle of grey at the temples that made men look distinguished.
Clothes were made for his body, shirt clinging neatly to a trim ‘no Chinese takeaway has touched me’ waist, and trousers that screamed ‘Look! Look! I’m designer!’
Nate Daley had been attractive at twenty-two, when he hadn’t quite grown into his arms and legs, and his Adam’s apple had sat prominently in his throat.
Nate Daley at thirty-four was gorgeous. All he’d need was a waistcoat and Laurel would be a pile of goo on the floor. And she hated that.
She also hated the fact that she was faced with him after all these years, without any prior warning or any way to fortify or prepare herself.
The blood that had pooled in her feet rushed back up her body to set her face on fire. She was a literal beacon guiding ships home from sea.
‘Uh, well, yeah.’ Why wouldn’t words come out? She took a breath. ‘Laurel, yes, my name is Laurel.’
He was staring at her like she had made a wildly inappropriate joke in front of elderly parents.
‘I thought your name was Lauren!’ Professor Rowlands chipped in. Laurel smiled at the older man, silently thanking him for dragging her eyes from the dusting of stubble over Nate’s jawline.
As long as she didn’t look at him, she’d be fine, right?
‘Sylvie, can you organise someone to take Dr Daley to the site?’
‘Nate.’ He corrected.
Laurel shot Nate a scathing look.
‘Professor Rowlands and I will have that cup of tea.’ She smiled kindly at her get out of jail free card, silently begging him to come and not make a fuss. She needed to interrogate him. There were a lot of ‘why’ and ‘how’ and ‘what the fuck’ questions circling her mind.
‘Nathanial, join us!’ Professor Rowlands said, all jovial exclamation marks. This man could obviously not read a room and Laurel didn’t know why she expected him to.
Didn’t Nate want to ‘see the site’? Surely, he wouldn’t want to join them. Would he? Laurel begged any god that would listen to make himnotwant to have tea with them, and clenched her jaw together tightly, her face blank and stoic. She desperately needed time to process the fact that Nate fucking Daley was standing in her farmyard, was going to be excavating her field, and would literally be in her home (well, not that she lived on the farm anymore, but whatever) for months and months. Maybe years, depending on the finds.
