Nate spread the papers out and launched into his pre-prepared spiel about what they’d already found, his well-calculated assumptions for what else was there and how the British Archaeological Society could help. Alex nodded and made the right noises in all the right places. This was important to the site. If Alex threw the considerable weight of the British Archaeological Society behind the dig, the funders at the presentation he’d have to give would be practically throwing money at them.
If they had the funding, then they could stay on site indefinitely and explore the extremely promising Little Willow Farm site. The Fletchers, well, Laurel, would be able to relax a bit as well, which she could most definitely do with. They were friends now, weren’t they? They’d had a fun time together at the pub, and she was good to talk to. She was obviously fully invested in the site as well.
Alex was looking at him expectantly.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Aren’t you listening?’ he snapped. No, he quite obviously hadn’t been.
‘Sorry man, my mind was elsewhere,’ he said, leaning forward to study the finds list.
Alex rearranged some papers in front of him.
‘In between Laurel Fletcher’s legs I bet,’ he said under his breath.
‘For fuck’s sake, Alex,’ Nate said, louder than he would have liked. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you? She’s my friend, stop talking about her like that.’
‘She’s your “friend” is she?’ Alex actually used air quotes. ‘Man, the woman has got “fuck me” written all over her face.’
It was a gut reaction. Nate’s fist flung out and connected with Alex’s cheekbone before his mind could catch up and say, no Nate, this is not a good idea.
‘What the fuck, Nate?’ Alex was incredulous. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ He dabbed at his cheek with his fingertips, checking to see if the skin was broken. Which it wasn’t, obviously, because it was more of a bop than a full-blown punch, but still. He’d have a bruise.
‘I’m sorry, Alex, but I told you not to talk like that,’ Nate started, eyebrows high. He was sorry that he’d punched his friend, but not really sorry. Not at all. ‘It was an unthinking reaction.’
‘Whatever,’ Alex sneered. ‘Plain to see where your loyalties lie, with some woman you’ve known a matter of months, instead of your best friend who you have known for what? Ten years? Twelve? Fuck you, man.’
‘Alex.’ Nate ran his hand through his hair. ‘Do you want some ice for that?’
‘No, I don’t want fucking ice.’ He pushed the chair back violently. ‘I’m getting off this shit-filled farm.’
Nate held out the packet of papers he’d prepared for Alex. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and stuffed the packet into his battered satchel.
Fuck. He’d fucked this up. Big time.
‘Let’s talk at dinner, yeah?’ Nate winced, olive branch well and truly held out.
‘Whatever,’ Alex said, petulant to the last.
Nate couldn’t blame him. He had punched him in the face. So, there was that.
Alex stormed out of the office, the door shaking on its hinges as it whacked the wall where Alex had thrown it open.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What a massive fucking mess. If Alex hadn’t have behaved like a Neanderthal, kept pushing and pushing after Nate had told him again and again to give it a rest, he wouldn’t have exploded like that.
But there was no excuse. He only hoped he could salvage the friendship.
Alex was vindictive and stubborn, and he could choose to punish Nate, and by proxy, Laurel and Little Willow Farm. He could be unnecessarily harsh and fail to recommend the dig for funding. Nate knew his proposal was good, the finds were good, it was a significant site, and a boon for Alex to be involved with. He’d done enough of these to know what should be recommended for funding.
Nate didn’t want to think about what he’d have to do if Alex declined to throw the British Archaeological Society weight behind the dig. He’d have to report him for unprofessional behaviour, sexist comments, failing to carry out his professional duty, and would have to request another liaison. That would signal the end of Alex’s career in the Society, and Nate really did not want to be responsible for that.
He also did not relish telling Laurel what had happened. God, what a mess.
Alex may call himself his ‘best friend’, but Nate finally recognised that, over the course of ten years, Alex had become someone Nate no longer wanted, or needed, in a friend.
Laurel
