Page 30 of Digging Up Love
OH MY GOSH ALISHA HOW DID YOU KNOW?
May 7
Alisha:
What about fossilized biscotti?
Quentin:
I feel like you’re going to tell me the dig inspired you and I don’t want to be held responsible.
Alisha:
But it did!
Quentin:
Alisha, that sounds terrible.
Alisha:
Lol, right?? You know I only share my bad ideas with you.
Quentin:
I do know. Because you’re trying to hide your brilliance.
Also, I can’t wait to taste more of your cookies, but I swear to God, if you give me a sourdough cookie ...
Alisha:
I’ll save those for your grad students.
CHAPTER 11
ALISHA
Curlicues of yellow lemon peel floated down into the sugar. Aromatherapy.
Some people might turn to the homey flavors of vanilla and cinnamon to chase away nerves, but citrus calmed Alisha’s soul. She tapped the zester on the bowl’s edge and checked the clock. Plenty of time to get this batch of lemon curd made and cooling for the pistachio tartlets she planned to debut this week in place of apple pie. Nailing this recipe had meant turning down three cookie orders, but Honey and Hickory—family—took priority.
After slicing the lemons, she put half of one in a juicer and squeezed tight. The paleontologists were due to arrive sometime this afternoon. An entire crew was headed down to work for the summer: Quentin, three grad students, and another assistant professor.
All good in theory, except the idea of seeing Quentin again lit up Alisha’s nerves like downtown at midnight. She cracked an egg on the rim of a ramekin, cradling the yolk while the white ran through her fingers, and willed her tension to follow suit.
Despite her resolve to avoid getting involved with him back in March, they’d been texting ever since. When her bite-size berry pavlovarecipe failed in gruesomely spectacular fashion, she’d caved to the urge to reach out and sent him a photo of the aftermath. He returned the favor with an anecdote about a technology mishap during class. They bonded over cringeworthy network TV and people’s poor decisions on social media.
Turned out he was fluent in GIF, which pretty much cemented his spot in her heart—if she had a spot in her heart for a man. Which she didn’t.
A pinch of salt, and then she placed the bowl atop a panful of simmering water, whisking so the eggs wouldn’t scramble. Strictly speaking, texting Quentin didn’t violate her “no boyfriends” policy. But comparing their conversations to chats with her guy friends? May as well compare a supernova to a bottle rocket.
And though she’d deny it to her grave, connecting with him marked the best part of her day. In a few moments of weakness—okay, more than a few—her finger had hovered over the call button, but each time she’d chickened out. And once, a few weeks ago, Quentin had called her, but she’d stared at her phone in panic and let it go to voice mail. He hadn’t tried again, and she told herself not to be disappointed.
Now he would be here in a matter of hours, and if anything, her attraction to his personality, to his quirks, to the memory of his beautiful storm-gray eyes continued to grow. If she couldn’t pull away with hundreds of miles between them, how would she fight the draw with him in her backyard all summer?
She picked up a wooden spoon and dragged it through the bowl. A satin layer of lemon curd coated the back of the spoon. Perfect. She took it off the heat and dropped slices of butter on top, stirring until they melted away. If only her worries could dissolve so easily.
Baking wasn’t working its usual magic on her stress level. Time to bring out the big guns.
