“No, I mean, we haven’t discussed sleeping arrangements. And frankly, I’m not really even sure I’m going to stay.”
“Not going to stay? Then why did Dr. Matthews have me bust my budget getting these gosh dang Jamaican coffee beans?” Agnes reached over to grab a clipboard and looked at what appeared to be an order form. “Said we had to have them,” she mumbled as she turned her back and reviewed the form.
Warmth spread over Corrie’s skin. He’d remembered. He remembered her love for Jamaican coffee.
She had to admit, he didn’t really seem the thoughtful type. No, Ford Matthews was always in it for himself. Perhaps that was all this was—his way of buttering her up so she’d sign on for this dig. See? We even special ordered your favorite coffee, just for you, because your being here means soooooo much to us.
Then wham! Ford’s name gets slapped on one of the greatest discoveries of their time and all Corrie gets is a smooth, rich cup of delicious Jamaican coffee.
Then again, that long evening they’d spent in the library drinking coffee together out of Corrie’s thermos was ingrained in her brain even after all these years. Maybe it was ingrained in his as well. She could still picture his lips pressed against the tiny red plastic cup of her thermos. Or at least it had looked tiny in his hands. His lips, touching the same spot where her lips had been, savoring that coffee as she’d savored his emerald eyes staring back at her from behind his glasses, never taking away his gaze. She remembered how the low moan in his throat had fanned the fire building in her core as the creamy yet bold and zesty coffee hit his taste buds. And how he’d licked away those few droplets that clung to his lower lip before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and returning the cup to her while brushing his fingers ever so lightly across her own.
Yep, she’d analyzed what that night meant many times, especially in light of the fact that a few days later she’d found him sucking face with Addison Crawley, daughter of the famed Yale professor Dr. Richard Crawley—Ford’s eventual boss. Who should have been her boss.
Corrie turned toward the tables, searching for Ford.
There.
He quickly looked away when she spotted him, but he’d clearly been watching her, which sent another tingle, though this one was focused in her midsection.
All right . . . maybe she wouldn’t try quite so hard to get under his skin. After all, perhaps this was his attempt at trying, too.
“Dr. Mejía! Over here!” Sunny called out from their table, waving her arms frantically in the air.
Oh boy. Deep breaths.
Ford had been right—Corrie would never have been a contender in a Miss Congeniality contest back in the day. But unlike Ford, who got things handed to him simply by being charming (and, apparently, by sleeping up the food chain), Corrie had had to learn to be likeable. And once she’d started teaching, well, she’d realized that excited students meant engaged students. After getting to know her students and mentoring her younger colleagues and seeing that they shared her passion, well, it made the whole experience even better. Sometimes those students and colleagues even became her friends. People like Miri.
Besides, what was the saying? You kill more bees with honey?
Oh, wait . . . or was it catch?
Eight years ago, Sunny would have annoyed the hell out of Corrie. But today, she found Sunny to be the much-needed bright spot—no pun intended—in an otherwise cloudy, craptastic day.
“Dr. Mejía, here, I saved you a seat,” Sunny said, shooing a younger guy out of the way as Corrie approached.
“You can call me Corrie.”
“I thought you said, ‘It’s Dr. Mejía’ earlier today,” Ford grouched from across the table. Though his snipe was quickly met with a jab in the ribs and a whispered grumble from Ethan.
“Well, my friends call me Corrie. Is someone going to introduce me to everyone?” she asked, looking around the table at the other four faces.
Ethan took the reins, going around and introducing Ford’s other interns and Ethan’s research assistant.
“Dr. Mejía—” one of the interns started.
“I told you, please call me Corrie.”
“Oh, okay . . .” he said, looking at Ford as if asking for permission, clearly unsure if doing so would be rude and insulting. Ford merely shrugged his shoulders before stabbing his spoon into his bowl of stew. “Well, Doctor, I mean Corrie, can you tell us about that time you got flooded out and had to build a raft to float to that Native village in the Amazon?”
Even though the world’s most prominent archaeologists didn’t find her escapades very . . . refined, Corrie enjoyed that she’d gained something of a following among the younger generation for her outrageous adventures. Ford let out a quick huff as he stared at his tray, making it obvious which camp he belonged to. Appeasing Ford wasn’t exactly high on Corrie’s list, but she also didn’t need to fan the flames or get into yet another spat with him, especially not in front of an audience. They were his students, after all.
Though she didn’t understand what he was so salty about. They were good stories. Even he should have been able to admit that. And if they really thought she was so great, they would have chosen to go to Berkeley rather than Yale so they could have studied under her instead.
But best not to poke the beast.
“You know,” she deflected, “it seems like you all already know about me. I’d like to learn more about all of you,” Corrie said.
Ford’s eyes looked up and locked on hers, as if acknowledging that she’d done that for him. Yeah, remember that the next time you start being an ass again.
They went around the table, telling Corrie about their studies. How they’d gotten into archaeology—a lot of Indiana Jones and The Mummy franchise fans as per usual. What they wanted to do once they were done with school. A few funny stories about Ford’s classes that garnered an endearing smile and a few playful ribbings from him. It seemed his students enjoyed his teaching style, and based on their banter, it seemed he enjoyed them as well.