Nate narrowed his eyes at her, as if he was trying to read ancient Sumerian and hadn’t got his dictionary, and his mouth twisted into his trademarked not-smile.
‘Sure,’ he said, tucking his hands into his pockets, cocking his head at her. ‘The site can wait.’
Nate
Nate didn’t really want tea, but he did want to see how red Laurel Fletcher could turn without exploding.
He knew from the paperwork that she was the same Laurel from university. She’d been an undergrad when he’d been a postgrad and had also been on the trip to the Wall (Hadrian’s, not the Lord Commander’s), but so had loads of people. As he followed Laurel and Ivor across the yard, sidestepping cow shit, he scoured his mind for any memory of Laurel Fletcher.
His best friend, Alex, had preened like a peacock when he found out Laurel had a massive crush on him. Alex had decided pretty quickly that she wasn’t his type and Nate remembered a tearful Laurel escaping from the student union pub after Alex had let her down. Perhaps that had prompted the explosion of colour on her face. Perhaps it was something else? Dredging through his time at university, he really couldn’t remember anything else about her at all. Although, at that time, he’d only had eyes for Lucia.
Okay, it was more than that – he’d revolved around Lucia.
He had inhabited her world, and he had been privileged to do so. That was, until she turned the warm light of her glow onto someone else, someone who would worship and venerate her as she needed. It was the age-old story. They grew up, they wanted different things. Lucia was destined for a nomadic Indiana Jones life of vibrant Hindu temples, sub-Saharan relics and First People religious icons, never staying in one place long enough to lay roots. Whereas he, Dr Nathanial Daley, wanted the exact opposite; a beautiful stable place that he could come home to every night, somewhere he could have a family, raise children. The excitement of travel and discovery was fun, but there was always that pull to somewhere he could safely say ‘yes, I belong here’.
Lucia hadn’t really got past twenty-four. She still worked for every opportunity, although she didn’t have to grapple too much now. She was a much sought after, well-respected professional archaeologist who universities and conservationists begged to grace their dig sites with her divine light.
But here was Laurel Fletcher, sitting across from him in this kitschy cafe with duck egg blue wooden chairs and too many varieties of homemade chutney displayed on the crate shelves, looking like she wanted Moby Dick to come and swallow her whole. Thatanythingwould be preferable to sitting opposite him.
But why? He was nice, he was friendly, people liked him. So why was Laurel Fletcher’s pretty mouth shrivelled up like a raisin? That intrigued him.
Nate jumped in as Ivor drew a breath, before the old professor could start another discourse on his gout. That’s why Nate was here. Ivor couldn’t possibly coordinate the dig, so he’d asked his dear friend and colleague, (and former student, ‘taught him everything he knows’) Dr Daley, to help an old man out.
‘Are you the farm manager?’ He frowned at the smell of cow dung.
Nate leaned back in his chair, hand resting on the table as Laurel bristled at his question.
‘No. I am not the farm manager,’ she said, voice quiet and dark. ‘I am CEO of Little Willow Farm Holdings Limited, and Little Willow Farm is a subsidiary of the larger company. My older brother and my father are the farm managers.’
She tilted her head and pursed her lips, as if she was expecting some kind of challenge from him, some kind of put-down, some kind of ‘there, there, aren’t you a good girl’.
‘A family business, then?’ Nate asked.
‘This farm has been in our family for generations.’ So, yes. Again, there was that challenging look, like she was expecting him to say something derogatory.
‘That’s very...’ he searched for the right word, ‘admirable.’
Nate inched lower in his chair and closed his eyes briefly. ‘Admirable’ was definitely not the right word, because Laurel’s eyebrow cocked so high it was nearly lost in her hairline.
‘I don’t work here out of duty,’ she said, placing her teacup down in the mismatched saucer and drawing herself more upright, if that was even possible. ‘I work here because I love this place. In fact, it’s not work at all, it’s my life.’
Nate took a long look at her, because that was awesome. Yeah, he loved his job. He loved the research, the excitement of discovering something new, the spread of dirt under his fingernails and the cool, crisp dewy morning air of a brand new dig site.
But it wasn’t his life, and that was the problem with Lucia. She wanted it to be his life, just as it was hers. He’d tried. God, he’d tried. He’d lived out of a backpack for three years, trailing her around the globe, adventuring and discovering. But the tired ache in his chest wasn’t soothed by Lucia’s effervescence anymore, and he wanted to stop, to rest, to be home.
Purple jealousy bloomed in the pit of his stomach at the fact that Laurel had that – a ready-made home, embracing her with the warm arms of family – and just as jealous that she was obviously hell-bent on defending it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he shuffled to fish it out, grateful to have the excuse to turn away from her accusatory eyes. Why was she so combative? He had no idea. He hadn’t done anything to her. Christ, he barely remembered her.
‘Don’t you need to get that?’ she asked, tension evident around her mouth.
His phone read ‘Alex Work’, and it could be something that the British Archaeological Society needed, but more than likely, it was Alex just wanting a chat. Nate sent his best friend’s call to voicemail and met her gaze frostily. If she wasn’t going to be friendly, then neither was he.
‘No.’
‘Beautiful tea, Lauren, but we really must get on. I want to look at the site before that nice bus driver takes me back to the university,’ Ivor said, clattering his cup on the table, ignoring the fact that the saucer was waiting right there.
Nate winced when he called her by the wrong name again, but Laurel just smiled benevolently at the old man.
