Page 84 of Digging Up Love
“Not everyone’s as obsessed with dinosaurs as you and I.” Quentin kicked at a tuft of grass growing through the uneven concrete.
She held on to her elbow, scratching a spot where a mosquito had found her. “Granted, but I don’t think you’re giving them enough credit.”
“Only because they give menone.” He groaned and clasped his hands behind his head. She tried not to be distracted by the way his biceps bulged. “Look, Alisha, I know I have no cause to complain.” His tone softened. “My parents are both still alive, and together, in my life.”
Alisha shook her head. “That’s not everything. I’m not naive enough to think just because they’re here, everything’s perfect. Tell me what’s going on.”
Dropping his elbows, he faced the street, lined with parked cars. “You know my dad’s never approved of my decision to go into paleo. Since I was a gifted kid, he wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer. Maybe an engineer. Not just for the money, though I call him out on that, but more so for the prestige. He wanted to know his son was successful.”
“But you are successful!” She couldn’t believe Quentin’s father couldn’t see his son’s career excellence. Not just anyone was on tenure track at Chicago Northern University.
“Not to him.”
“And you don’t think the acclaim over this excavation will make him rethink things?”
“One interview isn’t going to change his mind, Alisha.”
Not knowing how to dispute that, she came up behind him and engulfed him in a hug, head pillowed between his shoulder blades. He inhaled sharply and stroked a hand up her arm to her wrist. Then he turned to face her, settling his hands on her hips.
Dusk faded into darkness around them, the hum of a lawn mower in a neighbor’s backyard kicking up the uniquely summertime scents of fresh-cut grass and gasoline. Nostalgia and belonging. Home.
They remained face to face for a moment, gazes locked, before she lifted her mouth to his, and he captured her lips in a kiss full of yearning. A vibration pulsed against her hip, and she pulled back, chest heaving. Knowing there was no putting off Buzzkill Simone, she answered.
“Please tell me you invited your boy toy to the beach tomorrow,” her sister said by way of greeting, and Alisha winced at the volume.
“As a matter of fact, I hadn’t.”
“You’re still with him, aren’t you?” She caught Quentin smiling down at her, half-shadowed in the glow of the streetlamp. “I expected you back like an hour ago.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” He ducked his head and nuzzled the hollow of her neck, sending delicious shivers down her spine. “I should’ve texted.”
“Give him the phone,” said Simone.
“I will not.” She fisted her free hand in the soft fabric of his shirt and feebly pushed him away. “Your family’s right inside!” She craned her neck to check over her shoulder, but he splayed his long fingers against the small of her back, drawing her close.
“Ma always closes the drapes at seven o’clock sharp,” he murmured against her neck.
Her sister’s snippy tone came over the airwaves. “Does Pops know the guy digging up his lawn has his tongue down your throat?”
“Simone, why is it always threats with you?”
“Because you don’t respond to reason. Quit with the heavy breathing already and pass him the phone.”
With a growl, Alisha handed the phone to a heavy-lidded Quentin.
He lifted it to his ear. Nodded. “Yeah, sure thing. Sounds good.” He hung up. “Apparently I’m joining you at the beach tomorrow.” He slid the phone into her purse without taking his eyes off her, hands driftingback up to cup her jaw. “She also says to put you in an Uber because I’m monopolizing you.”
He dipped his head toward her again for a deep kiss, his tongue sweet from the honey he’d drizzled on his sopapilla. Alisha let her head fall back as he traced kisses down her neck to her collarbone, his arms gripping her, offering support when her knees turned to jelly.
Then he slid his hands under her thighs and lifted her, carrying her backward until tree bark bristled against her spine. She arched her back, shuddering at the firm pressure of his hips. “But I don’t think a few more minutes will make a difference ...”
CHAPTER 30
QUENTIN
As Quentin’s shoes pounded the pavement, warm wind buffeted his chest, the concrete Lakefront Trail suffused with rosy predawn light. He relished the peace these morning runs brought him. The trail was relatively quiet at this time of day, though stalwart bikers and runners dotted the path.
Lake Michigan would be crowded with boats by midday, but for now the surface lay placid, the hulls of moored sailboats reflected on the mirrored surface. The slap of water against the wave breaks punctuated the quiet hum of traffic.
