Page 97 of Digging Up Love
“Like I know?” Lawrence shrugged like the question was irrelevant, and at this point, it was. “One of your grad students? Maybe Reid. Did you sleep with her too? Nothing quite like a woman scorned to light a fire under your—”
“That’s enough.” Quentin leaned forward, though his hands trembled. “I will not tolerate you speaking about a member of our faculty like that.” And no way any of his students took the photo either. The whole crew had already been halfway back to Chicago by the time he’d gone over to bid Alisha goodbye.
Lawrence threw an elbow over the back of his chair, eyes narrow. “You need to step off that pedestal, Harris. You’ve always championed that equality-in-the-workplace garbage. Should’ve known you were just using it to get in with the ladies. No man cares about that nonsense without an ulterior motive.”
Quentin ground his molars together. “If I can prove I didn’t jeopardize our access to the dig, will you allow me to return to work?”
“Is that a joke?” He snatched up the pencil and jabbed it toward the screen again. Quentin flinched. “This is tabloid crap right here. Involving a member of my staff.” Lawrence jammed a thumb into the center of his chest. “You’re lucky you’re not cleaning out your desk right now.”
“But the incident didn’t even occur during a workday. This is my private life, on private property.” A weak excuse, considering their so-called private life had been splashed across the landing page of a national gossip site.
“News flash, Harris—privacy is dead. Your little fling put the whole department in jeopardy, and now we have to deal with the ramifications of your colossal screwup. If—and I highly doubt it, judging by the propensity for people to retweet, like, and share garbage like this—butifit blows over by the end of summer, you might have a shot at teaching fall term. But no way in hell you’re sniffing those Hawksburg bones.”
CHAPTER 36
ALISHA
Mint mocha, cinnamon butterscotch, vanilla bean, caramel toffee.
Which latte flavor went best with a destroyed relationship and tattered dreams? Alisha ripped the page out of her notebook, covered in scribbled notes of what was meant to be a new cookie recipe, inspired by Quentin’s penchant for gas station cappuccinos.
Instead, all the flavors had muddled into the chalky taste of loss. She tore the paper in half, then in half again, shredding until all that remained was the rumpled confetti of failure.
Sure, she’d told Quentin to go, but he’dgone. Left her behind without a backward glance.
What else did she expect? For him to stay in Hawksburg? Take up farming? Maybe put his PhD to use as a high school science teacher? Yeah, right. Everything that had transpired was inevitable. But that knowledge didn’t stop the anguish of loss. Didn’t fill the emptiness where she’d just begun to feel whole again.
After smiling and nodding through Grandpa’s plans for retirement at breakfast—most of which revolved around uninterrupted fishing trips and terrorizing Granny’s plants with a plan for a greenhouse—she’d taken off for Honey and Hickory, intent on baking therapy beforeHank showed up. She unlocked the door of the office and shoved it open.
Forget new and fresh. Stalking around past the rolltop desk, she knelt down in front of a dinged-up foot locker in the corner. She pried open the lid. Bingo. Grandpa’s secret snack stash. Pretzels, wavy potato chips, and bite-size candy bars. She pulled out bag after bag like a Viking raiding a treasure chest. She dumped her haul on the counter and took out the food processor.
These cookies would never appear on a menu, here or in her nonexistent bakery, but when life gave you a dumpster fire, may as well throw the kitchen sink in too.
Maybe she’d gone overboard in baking six dozen cookies. She’d sent the staff home with most of them, but Quentin’s truck wasn’t in the driveway when she pulled in, so Alisha headed out back to share the results of her stress-baking spree without worrying about bumping into him.
Melted chunks of chocolate offset the salty pretzels and potato chips to perfection, and if she didn’t get rid of them, she might end up eating the rest in an attempt to erase the pain of losing Quentin. Plastering on a smile, she approached the edge of the dig. All the paleontologists’ heads popped up like prairie dogs.
“Hey, girl,” Bridget stood and pulled off one of her work gloves. “If those are for us, you came at the perfect time. We were about done for the day.”
Forrest scampered up the ladder and snatched a cookie, chewing with his mouth open. Dev followed close on his heels and elbowed his ribs. “Manners, dude.” He raised a brow at Alisha. “May I?”
She nodded. “Help yourselves. Did Quentin already leave, then?”
The paleontologists traded a look. This time, visions of a clan of meerkats sprang to mind, and she bit back a smile.
“Quentin?” Bridget shaded her eyes, head cocked.
“Yeah. His truck’s not here.” Another undercurrent passed between the paleontologists. “What?”
“Alisha, Dr.Harris isn’t coming back.” Forrest spoke around the entire cookie in his mouth. Dev shot him a glare.
“What do you mean?” She’d watched everyone arrive before her shift, right on time, like the world hadn’t tipped off its axis last night.
“You really don’t know?” Cait bared all her teeth in a solid impersonation of the Michael Scott GIF. “Have you not checked your socials?”
“No. I’ve been working ...” And stress-baking, and ranting against the universe ...
She patted her pocket, but her phone was in her room. Off.
