As if to demonstrate, he opened the fridge and held up two bottles of some kind of dark ale she didn’t recognize.
Her mouth watered. It was a tempting offer after a long, frustrating day. But Riley hesitated.
Having a beer with him felt too casual. Too familiar. Not a business arrangement, but something she might do with a friend.
“No, thanks,” she said.
He put them both back and brought her a glass of water she hadn’t asked for instead.
Riley took a sip and got back to work.
By nine o’clock, they still hadn’t found anything and her eyes had begun to tear from strain. She was already thinking about the route back to the inn when something in an agricultural journal caught her attention.
“Hey.” She nudged Clark’s hairy forearm. “What about this thing with the angel’s-trumpet?”
He knuckled at his eye. “Is that a euphemism?”
“It’s a plant.” She showed him the illustration.
“Pretty?” he said, obviously hoping that was the answer she wanted.
“No. Look.” She tapped the text below the drawing. “A particular varietal used to be native to this region, right around the castle. Usually, the flowers are yellow or pink, occasionally orange, but the ones that grew here were dark blue and extremely rare. Something about the nutrients in the soil. It says here that growers used to make a fortune cultivating it—that it was a show of wealth to have them on display—but then the plant went extinct.”
“So?” Clark sketched a literal trumpet in his notebook, a pretty good approximation.
“So,” she repeated, “they call it ‘the riches of the holding—the jewel in Arden’s crown’ and it went extinct overnight.”
Pulling the journal forward, Clark studied the page and frowned. “These accounts are old and likely exaggerated. It wasn’t uncommon back then for insects or even a harsh frost to suddenly change the biome.”
Leave it to him to come up with the driest explanation possible.
“Yeah—or the castle—and all the surrounding soil—got fucking cursed!”
“An equally likely conclusion,” he deadpanned.
Riley didn’t care if he wanted to be a dick. This was weird. And weird meant a lead. How could he not see the connection? Her blood pounded. This was something!
“Here.” She cross-referenced the timeline. “June third, 1779. Who lived in the castle then?”
Under the table, their knees knocked as she sat forward for a better view.
“That’s near the very end of the clan war. Almost no one was left on either side.” Clark looked at the list of names, running his finger down the page, looking for someone with a death date later than that. “Philippa Campbell,” he said finally. “The clan called her the last daughter. They left her in the castle during the battle at Dunbar and none of her kinsmen returned.”
“And you said that dagger was made for a woman!” Riley sprang to her feet. “Oh my god! Do you get what this means? We have a who, and a when, we know why—hello, she was left desperate and alone with enemies at her doorstep—we just need a how and we’re in business, baby!”
“Am I the baby in that sentence?” Clark said dryly.
“Come on.” She smacked the desk. “We found something.”
He yawned. “I hope you’re not simply reaching for my benefit?”
Riley’s momentary elation dimmed. Apparently her breakthrough was boring him. And yeah, that was pretty much the story of her life. Is that why he’d sat here with her for hours, working at her side, to prove to himself at the end that she had nothing to show for it? To watch her play at research when he was a professional?
She’d almost forgotten for a bit that she was alone in this. That was her problem. She wanted something that wasn’t on offer—for him to believe her.
“Forget it.” She reached over and flipped the agricultural journal closed. “Let’s just call it a night.”
“All right,” Clark said easily, already reaching forward to close other books and gather pens. Obviously he couldn’t wait for her to leave.
Of course he can’t. He thinks you’re a menace, she reminded herself. You remind him of his deceitful best friend. Riley couldn’t help herself—despite her anger, her embarrassment, she felt bad for him.
Between the famous dad and his soap-opera-star face, it was probably hard for Clark to trust anyone. People must feed him bullshit constantly, trying to get into his good graces or his pants, respectively.
“Sorry,” she said when he caught her staring. God, she was exhausted. She’d zoned out there for a second, gazing at him. Creep alert.
“It’s fine,” Clark handed her a pile of her Post-its. “You don’t need to be embarrassed.”
“Wait. Embarrassed about what?” Almost falling asleep at his table?
“Being attracted to me,” he said, as if that were obvious. “We’ve spent a lot of time together this afternoon, in close quarters. And it’s only been a few days since we . . .” His gaze slipped to her mouth. “It’s perfectly understandable.”
“Excuse me?” Riley fought not to choke on her own spit. “I am not attracted to you!”
Of all the asinine, bigheaded, ridiculous things to assume. Just because he was objectively, face-meltingly hot, and probably had people swooning all over him constantly, did not mean she was sitting here with her tongue hanging out. She wasn’t completely shallow.
“Hey, it’s not a big deal.” Clark had the nerve to pat her hand. “I know it doesn’t mean you’re fond of me or anything. Anyone could get confused—”
Riley snatched her hand away, flexing her fingers to rid herself of a sudden shock from his touch. “No, it is a big deal. Did you think I was sitting here mooning over you? Because I totally wasn’t.”
“Okay, fine.” He shrugged. “I guess you’re not attracted to me. My mistake.”
“You don’t believe me.” His tone had placation written all over it.
“If it makes you feel better,” he said, “I believe you don’t want to be attracted to me.”
Riley could feel a hot flush spreading across her chest, climbing up her neck.
No. Fuck that. She couldn’t afford for either of them to have an ounce of doubt that she was in control of her feelings about him.
“When I look at you, all I see is someone selfish and uninspired. In fact, there’s no one I could desire less.”
“All right, love.” Clark scoffed. “Go ahead and tell yourself whatever you need to.”
“I’m serious.” She racked her brain. How could she display how completely unaffected she was? “You could go full Magic Mike—XXL—right here on this table and I wouldn’t even blink.”
“Well, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m afraid I’m not up for gyrating at the moment.” Clark rubbed at his neck, once again making a show of how sore he was after his gallant rescue.
Hey. There was an idea. If he wanted to blame her for his back pain, Riley could give him something to really whine about.
“Why don’t I give you a massage?” There! Why would someone attracted to him offer to do that? Of course they wouldn’t! They’d be nervous and uncomfortable and awkward. Unlike her.