Page 89 of Digging Up Love
Instantly regretting his decision to come over, Quentin pushed past his friend into the spacious entryway and toed off his Nikes. He’d come straight from meeting with Lawrence, who’d reamed him out for not getting out ahead of the situation and anticipating the arrival of the reporters.
The chair of his department hated losing control, but with the dig public knowledge and no damage to the site thus far, the worst was behind them. They could control the narrative going forward, issue a press release once they’d definitively identified the fossils. As it stood, things were fine.
With the dig, at least. With Alisha? Right now, their future was murkier than the dregs of the creamy caramel latte he’d knocked back on his way over, a poor remedy for the root of a sleepless night.
He stalked through sunbeams slanting across the open-plan space and into the kitchen in search of something stronger than espresso.
“Hello to you too.” Tre trailed after him. “Saw your ugly mug on the news, bragging about those old bones. You paleo guys get all the glory.”
Tuning out his friend’s rambling, Quentin yanked open the stainless steel french doors of the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle at random. He tugged out a few drawers until he found an opener and wrenched off the top.
Leaning against the island, Tre asked, “Can I get you anything else, Hulk? Maybe some bricks to smash?”
Quentin bumped the drawer closed with his hip and drained half the beer. “Nope, I’m good.”
“Great. So long asyou’reset.” Tre shook his head and pulled out a bottle of red wine from the rack in the corner. He unwrapped the top and twisted in the corkscrew. “Since you dropped by unannounced ...” With a grunt, he worked the cork free. “I’m guessing either your AC is out again or it’s lady trouble.”
Spying a box of oatmeal cream pies on the counter, Quentin tore into one, finishing half in a single bite and washing it down with beer. On the second bite, his teeth sank into the cookie, and he remembered Alisha’s words.A ginger cookie. Soft and sweet? Yeah, right. More like salty and sour.
He’d snapped at her, left her high and dry on the sandy beach. On the day he’d meant to offer her his heart, he’d bruised hers instead. The cookie stuck like paste in his throat, and he took another swig.
Tre raised his eyebrows. “Lady trouble it is. What happened between you and the farm girl?”
Fighting down the mouthful of cookie, Quentin said, “I don’t dategirls, since I’m an adult man.”
“Again with this, Q? Can I trade you in for a less woke model?” Tre screwed a wine aerator into the top of the bottle and sighed like a martyr. “Whatever, my bad. Farmwoman?” He scrunched up his faceand tipped the bottle toward Quentin. “Gotta admit, not quite the same ring to it.”
Tre opened a glass-front cabinet and slid out two wineglasses, but Quentin shook his head, so he put one back.
Under his breath, Tre said, “Too macho for merlot, but gets hung up over terminology ...” At Quentin’s slow blink, he desisted. “All right, are you gonna polish off the entire package of Little Debbies or tell me what’s bothering you before Radhika gets home in, oh”—he checked his Apple Watch—“half an hour?”
After striding over to the leather couch, Quentin threw himself down into its plush depths.
“Door number one, I see. Cool.” Tre settled into the tufted velvet armchair next to him and clicked onSportsCenter.
A smile tugged at Quentin’s lips in spite of himself. He eyed the dregs of his beer. Shoot, he was becoming a lightweight.
“What?” Tre took a sip of wine, and Quentin’s smile grew.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Sitting there in your wingback chair, sipping overpriced wine. I’m getting a very ‘Sherlock Holmes meets Frederick Douglass’ vibe. Where’s your ascot and pipe?” He pretended to glance around in search of the missing accessories.
“Shut up, man. You sound like Radhika.” Tre sniffed and turned his attention back to the TV. “She says I’ve let this bougie new condo go to my head.”
Quentin inhaled his sip of beer, pounding a fist to his sternum. “Amen to that,” he finally managed.
“Yeah, yeah.” Commercials came on, and Tre switched to a baseball game. “So what’s going on, Q?”
“Alisha and I are over,” Quentin said, then hissed when the Cubs player hit a homer.
“Wait. You weredatingthe farm woman?”
“Tre, come on. Quit with that crap.” He leaned over the arm of the couch to put his empty bottle on the side table, noting the green marble coaster with a shake of his head. This place was a far cry from the crappy apartment he and Tre had shared in their twenties. “And yes, weweredating. You know we’ve been texting since March and hanging out all summer. Well, I finally convinced her to go out with me for real. Then this weekend, she met my family—”
“Rewind, pause. You’ve been holding out on me! I’m proud of you, brother. It’s. About. Time!” Tre leaned forward and held out a fist, but Quentin glowered at him, so he sat back, crossing an ankle over his knee.
