Lucky to have a son thousands of miles away? A son who was gambling everything on an archaeological discovery that no one in hundreds of years had been able to find? Sure, Dr. Snyder. Sure. At least, had he stayed in New Haven, he would have been able to collect his comfortable salary. But his salary alone wouldn’t have been enough, not in the long term. Having to settle all his father’s debts and pay for his mother’s apartment and living expenses since his father passed had eaten into Ford’s savings.
So when the opportunity to lead this dig had come up with the potential to make out big, he’d taken it. Literally. Right out from under Corrie’s nose, and she didn’t even know it. If she ever found out—well, she’d probably murder him. This was her life’s work. Corrie would probably go so far as to say it was her life.
But Ford’s mother’s life actually depended on this. So life’s work or not, in his eyes, his needs trumped Corrie’s. Besides, if she stayed, she could still get what she wanted while at the same time helping him get what he wanted.
“Thanks,” he finally responded to Dr. Snyder. “I’d better get going. Tell my mother I’ll talk to her on Friday.”
The instant he got off the phone, he immediately dialed his assistant in Connecticut, asking her to handle the payment for Lakeview using his credit card. He wasn’t supposed to use his assistant for personal matters like this, but being in a Mexican jungle left him little choice otherwise. Hopefully they’d make it back to the States before his assistant would have to start taking calls about his maxed-out credit cards.
He needed this dig to go right, and, until this point, the only thing he’d done was fuck it up.
He glanced at Corrie and Ethan, who were crouched over a small hole in the ground as Corrie lifted a trowel and traced it through the air along the ridgeline with Ethan nodding beside her. Great. She was right. The only way this dig had even a remote chance of being successful was if he trusted her.
Catherine Matthews was worth the hit to his ego. He’d do anything for her. He looked at the inside of his arm where his mother’s initials had been tattooed on his skin, realizing that he was still gripping that clump of dirt Corrie had placed in his hand. Unfurling his fingers, he stared at the dark soil, listening to see if the ancient spirits could speak to him. Tell him what he was doing wrong. Tell him what he needed to do to make it right.
A quetzal cawed overhead, turning his attention to the sound and putting Corrie directly in his line of vision. Corrie. Maybe that dirt could speak. Maybe it was telling him that Corrie was the answer.
He shook his head and his hand, letting the dirt fall to the jungle floor and brushing the remnants on his pants. Don’t be ridiculous. Dirt can’t talk. But when he looked up again and stared at her, watching her animated discussion with Ethan, he couldn’t let her go.
If he was going to help his mom, Ford would have to swallow his pride and admit—out loud, for the first time in a long time—that he was wrong. And to Corrie Mejía, no less.
Letting out a long exhale, Ford started toward Corrie and Ethan. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t even notice him approaching until he was less than three feet away. And even then, it was a twig snapping underneath Ford’s foot that managed to grab their attention rather than Ford himself.
“Everything okay?” Ethan asked as he and Corrie stood.
Ford nodded. He didn’t want to get into the whole thing about his mother. He hadn’t even told Ethan that she was sick. All that would have led to would be Ethan trying to convince him not to go on this expedition. In fact, he hadn’t told anyone about his mother. Except Corrie.
“Yeah, just a call about an update,” he responded. Which wasn’t technically untrue, although he was sure Ethan and Corrie took that to mean a call from the investor looking for an update rather than someone else providing an update to Ford on his mom.
“So . . .” Ford said, looking at Corrie, “do you think you can do this? Help us, I mean?”
“Are you sure you actually want my help?” she asked in return. She didn’t ask in a snarky way. It was an honest question.
“Yes,” he simply responded.
Corrie glanced at Ethan, then at the dig site, as Ford waited breathlessly for her answer.
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
He stared at her for a solid beat, then nodded. “All right, then. Let’s tell everyone to pack up. We’re done here.”
He’d turned and started walking toward the crew when Ethan and Corrie ran up beside him. “What do you mean, ‘We’re done here’?” Ethan asked, confusion written all over his face. “I thought you wanted Corrie’s help? Didn’t you hear her? She’s going to stay.”
Ford stopped and turned to face them. “I heard her. So, because I was wrong,” he said, exaggerating his words, “and this isn’t the site, we need to pack up and shut it down. It’s going to take a few days to return it to its natural state, so while everyone else is doing that, Corrie and I will go research some other locations. I’ll need you, Ethan, to stay here and direct the breakdown. And if we’re lucky, maybe we’ll find the right site and can resume digging within the next couple of days. Now, we’re already way behind schedule because of this . . . error, so let’s not stand around debating my decision, because I’m still in charge here, and I want to be confident about at least one decision I’ve made in the past three months, okay?”
Ethan and Corrie simply nodded. Speechless. Ford never thought he’d see the day the two of them were speechless. Too bad it had to come at his expense.
“Great. Glad you agree,” Ford said, resuming his march toward the crew.
And, hopefully, this would finally be the start of good decisions he made on this disaster of a dig.
Chapter
Five
Corrie couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe he’d actually said those three magical words: I. Was. Wrong.
Most women might look at a man like Ford Matthews and think the sweetest and best three little words they could ever hope to hear come from his mouth were more in the likes of I love you. But not Corrie. For Corrie, hearing I was wrong come from those sweet, delicious lips practically gave her an orgasm.
She could totally get used to this.
The only words that could possibly be sweeter were I’m sorry. Sorry for all the jokes and jabs. Sorry for snagging that fellowship out from under her. Sorry for somehow weaseling his way to get this gig—some connection through Dr. Crawley, no doubt.
And maybe even a sorry for that night in the library. For leading her on. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d wanted to kiss her. If they’d been given thirty more seconds, his lips would have been on hers. One hundred percent.
How they’d managed to be locked on Addison Crawley’s only a few days later was beyond her. And dammit . . . it had hurt.