‘Your leg hasn’t stopped tapping.’ Anwar frowned back at him. ‘It’s annoying.’
So was Anwar when he’d had a few swigs of beer.
It was still hot when they arrived and piled into the Dog & Gun, and Nate glanced around to see if Laurel had arrived. Not yet.
‘Robin Fletcher,’ the middle-aged barmaid called. ‘Your sister phoned and opened a tab. She’s been very clear. One drink each.’
A cheer went up and Robin leaned on the bar, giving her a wink.
Drinks were handed round, and Nate spilled outside with the rest of the dig team to the picnic benches in front of the pub, basking in the last of the day’s sun. He pushed his hand through his hair impatiently. Not for the first time, Nate wished he’d had time for a haircut. It was too long and unruly. He could at least look neat.
‘Dr Daley, do you think we could be moved into trench one?’ A couple of students had cornered him, one batting her eyes eagerly. ‘I mean, I just really want to find something, you know? Something important.’
He did know, so he smiled benevolently at the girls, making some non-committal noises because he had absolutely no intention of reallocating trenches.
Where was Laurel? He pursed his lips in annoyance. This was her celebration as well, and she was missing it, and she was the only one that he could have a decent conversation with. Robin was here enjoying himself when he had done precisely nothing to contribute to the dig. All he had done is book a minibus, which was easy because it was his mate’s dad who ran the local taxi company. Apparently, Robin Fletcher could coax a loving hug from a scorpion if he so wished.
Nate tuned out the two girls babbling on about how excited they were and what they were going to do with their pretty, young lives, and glanced down the road, wondering which direction Laurel would come from. She lived in Little Houghton, but he didn’t know where exactly. Nate took another sip of his beer and looked in the other direction.
There she was, walking down the dusky, hazy main road.
‘Excuse me, ladies,’ he said, moving to stand at the edge of the pub forecourt.
Laurel was in turned up jeans, flat sandals and what looked like the softest, most comfortable white t-shirt he had ever seen. This was Casual Laurel, wavy hair loose down her back, shoulder bag diagonal across her chest. Nate raised his hand to her and she waved back.
‘Hey, you’re late,’ he said once she was in earshot, smiling. Her cheeks had a glow to them. ‘Drink?’
‘Yeah, and I’m not late. I’m perfectly on time,’ Laurel commented, but her mouth curved up at the corners. ‘Robin,’ she called. ‘Drink?’
Robin called back that he was alright and indicated his full pint. Laurel turned to him expectantly.
‘Come on.’ He let her go first into the pub, guiding her with a hand to the small of her back. He was right, it was the softest t-shirt he had ever felt.
Most of the older locals had congregated inside, away from the noise and effervescence of his students and Robin with his friends outside, but there was a group who had taken the remaining picnic table.
‘What would you like?’ he asked, resting an elbow on the slightly damp bar. ‘Wine?’
‘Pint please, lager, not that treacly stuff.’ She gestured vaguely at his half-drunk pint and he grinned, signalling for the barmaid. It both amused and annoyed him that he got her drink wrong every single time.
‘You look nice,’ he observed, cutting his eyes to hers before ordering at the bar. A blush flowed across her collarbone and up her neck.
‘Oh, thanks,’ she muttered, grabbing her pint and taking a long draught as soon as the barmaid put it in front of her. ‘I needed that,’ she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and looking up at him with those big whiskey eyes. He knew Laurel was pretty, but a realisation smacked him hard in the chest.
Laurel Fletcher was beautiful.
Chapter Seven
Laurel
Laurel hoped the lager would calm her nerves. Why was she so nervous?
She was, indeed, late because she had changed her outfit about twelve thousand times; different shoes, different top, different trousers, dress, skirt, shorts. And hair. Why did it take so long to do her hair?
In the end, she’d decided fuck it, don’t try so hard, don’t worry about it. It’s not like she was looking to pull Nate Daley, or anyone for that matter, was it?
But when he had ambled halfway onto the pavement, pint in hand, and watched her walking down the road, she knew exactly why it had taken so long.
‘Let me pay the tab, Angela,’ she said to the barmaid who handed her a bill that was way more than one drink each. Either that, or Angela was screwing her over, but she couldn’t argue, not today, not when they’d found something magical and beautiful under her field.
