‘Perhaps you can find something exciting like last time you two were both on the same dig,’ he said.
‘The Pictish stylus,’ she said quietly, glancing at Nate so quickly, he would have missed it if he wasn’t already looking at her.
‘Of course,’ Nate said, leaning forward and tracing her face earnestly with his eyes. ‘You found it.’
How could he have forgotten that it was Laurel who had carefully pushed the mud and dirt away from a five-inch-long bone stick, a soft point at one end and the other end squared off. He hadn’t been there when she’d presented it to Ivor, but others said Ivor told her it was a lovely piece for holding together a cloak, but nothing of particular interest. Nate could imagine the disappointed slump of her shoulders, the crease between her eyebrows as she tried to explain something to their professor, the dismissal of a blithe ‘yes, yes’. Her find had been photographed, catalogued, and put in the university’s storage, with all the other finds, to be studied and assessed later. Finds didn’t belong to the person who found them. They were university property to be studied and perhaps donated to a loving museum home.
What Laurel had lovingly excavated was the single most career-making find of his entire life. One that he could never hope to top. One that had literally made him. That single discovery had changed the centuries held view of the Picts being illiterate, changed the entire historiography. It was a massive deal.
First had been the lauded academic paper co-written with Alex, then the TV appearances. Lucia had been starry-eyed and proud. But that had been years ago now.
‘Yes, I did.’ Laurel tilted her head defiantly at him. Perhaps she was annoyed that he’d got recognition for the Pictish stylus and she hadn’t? But she hadn’t written the paper. He and Alex had.
‘Well, hopefully, we can find something of equal, if not more, historical significance on your farm,’ Nate said, leaning back in his chair again and watching her carefully.
Something about Laurel, maybe the way her full lip curved, or the sleekness of her neck, made him want to watch her, to study her. There was something hidden behind her bronze eyes, some blatant distaste for him. He knew himself, he was kind, he helped people out. So, what was it about him that made Laurel’s lips tense together and her eyes become flat and distant?
They knew of each other in university, but they’d never had any interaction that could inspire this reaction from her, and certainly not ten years after they’d last seen each other.
‘Hmm, yes.’ Laurel folded her hands on the table and regarded him, clearly waiting for him to say something more. Her face was an attractive shade of fuchsia and she was obviously battling hard to not look down or away, anywhere but at him.
‘Come on then please, Dr Daley. Let’s get moving, get the students up to the trenches.’ The professor heaved himself up from the table, tipping an imaginary hat to Laurel.
This was precisely the reason that Nate had been drafted in to ‘help’ (i.e., run) the dig. The trenches had not yet been dug.
Nate checked his watch, precisely fifteen minutes until the plant machinery was due to arrive to dig said trenches. They’d already run the geophysics initial tests to see shadows of any finds under the earth, and he’d made the decision as to where the three trenches were going to be, which should be an excellent starting point. With any luck, this would turn into a full-fledged excavation of near enough the entire field, if the geophysics results were anything to go by. Which they should be.
There was hidden treasure in the fields, and all he had to do was find it.
‘I’ll need someone to direct the plant machinery,’ Nate said, standing. Laurel’s eyebrows climbed her forehead and she blinked at him, balancing her elbows on the table and linking her fingers together, waiting.
‘Please.’ Nate held back the eye roll, but couldn’t stop his hands from flaring out, and his lips curving into a sarcastic little grin.
Laurel narrowed her eyes at him and was silent for two slow breaths. Nate could weather her little power play. Especially because the pink flush on her neck was deepening with every second he looked at her.
‘Jack will be down from lambing shortly. He’ll direct your plant.’ Laurel stood, straightened the skirt of her dress, gave a fleeting smile to Ivor, a glare to Nate, and headed for the exit.
‘Who’s Jack?’ Nate called after her, tucking his hands in his pockets and watching Laurel’s dress swish around her thighs as she walked. God, she even walked authoritatively.
‘My older brother,’ she called over her shoulder, without stopping.
‘Quite a girl that one, Nathanial. Quite a girl.’ Ivor clapped Nate on his shoulder as he ambled past.
Yes, she was indeed.
Laurel
Apparently, Nate fucking Daley, as well as becoming infinitely more attractive, had become infinitely more of an arrogant wanker as well.
Laurel fumed as she stormed up the stairs to the offices above the farm shop, and didn’t everyone know it.
That condescending ‘of course,youfound it’.
That mocking smile when she pointedly refused to help until he’d said please (come on now, being polite is basic human behaviour).
And the insinuation that Laurel’s little family farm business wasn’t as worthy as his job.
Okay, fine, he didn’t actually come right out and say it, but the way he probed for information, Laurel knew that’s exactly what he thought – that Little Willow Farm and her life choices weren’t sophisticated or exciting, and ‘oh look at my suit’.
