Chapter 13
Sixty-Nine Days Until the End of the Summer Excavation Season
Smithson doesn’t go out for a ride on Saturday morning. Ripley would have heard him if he did.
She has the feeling he got up at nine a.m. London time and started working his phone—if he went to sleep at all, that is. He was absolutely delusional yesterday, promising her money like he was ready to take a hammer to his own piggy bank.
She waits until the sun’s at a decent height before slipping out of her quarters to make coffee.
The air is cool and damp, the spiderwebs in the long grass extravagantly bedecked with dewdrops.
A scattering of fossilized needlefish scales—the crew’s substitute for poker chips during Friday-night Texas Hold’em tournaments—decorates the picnic tables.
When she was young, on Saturday mornings like this, she used to pour herself a bowl of cereal and go outside to find her dad.
He’d be sitting on the stairs, sipping from a chipped mug that said Old Mechanics Never Die, They Just Need a New Starter Motor.
“Hey, Pip,” he’d say, his tanned face breaking into a smile.
“What adventures should we have today?” The days felt summery and golden, rich with possibility.
This Saturday, she feels like having the dig to herself for a quiet hour before everyone else wakes up. Once she and Cara break the news, nothing will be the same.
Some of the crew will stick it out for the whole two weeks—Jordin, she’s guessing, and Griff. She suspects the twins are already looking for new jobs.
Smithson will be gone by Monday.
Since he didn’t find the money, she isn’t strictly obliged to help him, but she’ll send him a list of friendly contacts on the private side. She’ll call some people herself, considering how hard he tried to get her the funding.
Is it wrong to admit she’ll miss him? Not because of the moment at lunch yesterday.
That’s nothing she needs to worry about.
She’s had a thing for science nerds since she sat next to Declan Patterson in AP physics.
Declan thought being named after an alien hunter in a horror movie was cool; Ripley was intrigued by a boy big enough to join the football team but sure enough of himself not to.
One night in the spring of their senior year, outside the long, low public library that managed to look like a trailer even though it was made of fieldstone and yellow bricks, he’d somberly bent down and kissed her.
She remembers thinking, Oh. This is what kissing is supposed to feel like.
So it’s really not Smithson she’s attracted to, only an archetype that he happens to embody.
She is not swayed by the brilliance of his smile with the one slightly crooked, rather endearing lower tooth or the reverence in his gaze when he looks at Beauty.
She’s curious about the tattoo on his scarred leg because it’s a mystery, not because it’s his mystery.
He’ll go back to California. She’ll put all her energy into getting Beauty’s wing to market. If they think of each other again, it’ll be an accident.
Ripley sighs and pours herself a second cup of coffee—not particularly hot anymore, but she’ll take it. She’s in the mood to head down to the canyon.
The dig feels anthropological this morning, like Ripley’s discovered an ancient settlement and all that’s left of it are the objects that show what people did, what they cared about, what they believed.
The whitened earth is where the villagers let the plaster buckets drip dry after being rinsed.
The brown hump is where they sifted the dirt from their excavations and filled Ziploc bags with stray fragments.
One villager—Matteo, obviously—dropped a hammer and never picked it up. And down the canyon, that’s where—
What the fuck?
Ripley left Beauty securely covered. She knows she did. But her cover is neatly folded and set to the side. A figure in dark clothing sits next to her.
Ripley’s down the stairs and halfway to the creek when her eyes and brain start working together.
She pulls up short from a dead run, heart slamming in her chest. Coffee drips from her right sleeve. She can’t remember how she got here.
Jesus Christ.
Smithson is dressed warmly, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, ripstop pants tucked into his socks in the height of paleontology fashion. His spiral-bound sketchbook rests on his bent knees. A thin line of white dents his full lower lip where it’s trapped between his teeth.
He switches pencils, and his soft shading motions are replaced by loose strokes that twist one way, then spiral finely back the other, like the movements she makes when she’s brushing Beauty.
He looks up, his eyes shadowed with dark circles. “Is that for me?” He leans forward, reaching for the mug.
Ripley surveys the half-full mug, her dripping hand, her spattered pants. “Sure.”
“You’re literally an angel,” he says after a long, ecstatic sip. “By God, this is the best coffee I’ve had in years.”
“It’s shit,” she says matter-of-factly.
“It’s good shit, even without milk.” He sips again, closing his eyes in pleasure. She wishes she hadn’t seen that particular expression on his face. It evokes a sharp twist of want in her chest for reasons she’s not convinced are related to a general appreciation for male nerds.
“Whatcha drawin’?”
“I thought I’d do a few concept sketches of Beauty. This one’s not finished, but…” He hands her the notebook, downs the rest of the coffee, and pushes himself to his feet.
He’s drawn Beauty in flight, wings extended, pinions spread. Powerful legs and clawed feet trail from her belly. Her dinosaur jaw is elongated into a beaky shape.
She has teeth. Like a tiny dragon.
He’s good. He’s very good. There’s something so familiar about his style.
He reaches across her to flip back a page.
Now Beauty perches on a branch, about to spring into the air.
Another flip and she’s standing in a river, eyeing the shadow of a fish beneath the surface.
Then she’s crouching over a clutch of speckled eggs, the detail so exquisite that tears spring to Ripley’s eyes.
She reaches for the next page, but Smithson stops her hand with his.
“Erm, that’s the last one.”
She’s never stood close enough that she could reach up and put her thumb into the divot in his lip before.
Never looked into his eyes for more than a second or two.
They’re tired today, heavy-lidded, the blue rims of his irises almost gray in the shade of the canyon.
The hand he’s placed over hers feels good. Solid.
Her heart skids in her chest like it’s lost control on a curve.
He takes his hand away. “Sorry. I do keep some confidential work in this book, so…”
“Right.” Ripley looks down at where his index finger left a smudge of pencil across her knuckles. She has to fight the urge to cover it. To keep it.
He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses nervously. “What do you think?”
“These are…” She looks away, trying to pull herself together.
“I know I’ve assumed a great deal,” he says, speaking fast. “I thought because her phalanges were so like Cryptovolans but her ulna was still quite faithful to Bambiraptor, I might give her a phenotype somewhere in between. But if I was too presumptuous, Ripley—which I was, extremely presumptuous, and I’m very sorry—”
“Shut up, Smithson.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Shut up. They’re amazing. They’re beautiful. She’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen, and…”
His shoulders drop, his chin lifting with relief. “And?”
“And it’s you.” He’s the mysterious artist who draws the most evocative renderings of ancient creatures she’s ever seen. “The posters. Your papers. It’s you.”
“Oh.” His face takes on a pinched air. “Yes. It’s a hobby of mine. Although I’d be obliged if you kept it between us. I do enjoy the luxury of anonymity.”
“You could do this for a living, you know.”
He tugs the book from her hands and flips it closed. “In my family, it’s understood that we give our lives to science.”
“In my experience as a medical-anatomy TA, people don’t usually donate themselves to science while they’re still alive.”
He huffs. “You are never more American than when you do this…bantering thing.”
“Ha. You hold your own, Professor. Would you draw Beauty for the Clever Girl Museum? A detail of the wing with the fossil elements superimposed and then a concept sketch of the rest of her?”
“There’ll be no need for drawings by an amateur,” Smithson says. “You can get a professional artist to sketch the complete skeleton. After you find the rest of her, of course.”
“The dig’s closing, Smithson. There’s no more time for discovery.”
He tucks the notebook under his arm. “Yes, there is,” he says, an exhausted, brilliant double curve breaking across his face. “We got the money.”
Ripley’s never been the type to scream with joy and leap into people’s arms.
But the canyon is echoing with a shriek she recognizes as her own. She’s also looking down the back of Smithson’s black hoodie, her arms around his shoulders and her knees hooked over his hips. “You’re a fucking genius. A genius,” she repeats.
He laughs, one arm under her ass and one around her back, pulling her hard against him. He tucks his head against her shoulder and presses the cool shell of his ear into her neck. “You don’t mean that,” he mumbles, but she can tell he’s pleased.
“I absolutely mean the hell out of that. Holy shit. Holy shit!” she yells, turning her face to the sky. “I could kiss you right now, Smithson. In fact…” She impulsively aims for his temple.
“In fact what?” he asks, lifting his head at the exact wrong moment. Ripley’s mouth makes landfall a millimeter away from his double-curved grin.
It was meant to be quick. She’s already pulled away. Their mouths didn’t even touch.
But now she’s staring at him, and he’s staring at her.
His fingers spread wide across her back, and it’s ridiculous that this is enough to bring her nipples to tight, tingling awareness.
The rise of his chest slows to the particular speed that says he’s not just breathing, but breathing her in.
His skin gives off a waft of the dig—plaster, coffee, earth.
Underneath that, he smells like warm skin and the lemon and vetiver shampoo she guiltily sniffed when he forgot it in the shower one time.
She doesn’t even know what vetiver is, but it must be the green, grassy scent that’s dragging a hot, fluttering pulse from between her legs.
She feels as hungry as he looks. She feels like she could—
“Okay, dumb-fucks!” The pissed-off shout echoes through the canyon.
Ripley’s abs spasm in surprise. Smithson’s thighs tense beneath her heels; his hand clutches her ass convulsively.
“Whoever decided it was a good idea to bone on top of the bones—and no, you’re very much not the first people to think of it—you have ten seconds to get your asses in your pants: Ten. Nine.”
“Let go,” Ripley hisses, pushing away from his chest.
“Stop struggling,” he grits out, holding her upright until her feet stop scrabbling at the ground.
At the top of the stairs, Cara stands with one hand over her eyes, the other propped on her hip. “Eight. Seven. Six. No one better have done the dirty literally on top of a specimen. I promise you I will bill your parents for the damage. Five. Four. Three.”
“Cara. It’s me.”
Cara peeks through her fingers. “Oh. Ha. No wonder I didn’t recognize the orgasmic screaming.”
Smithson’s eyes widen.
“Cara,” Ripley says through clenched teeth. Her relationship dry spell is none of Smithson’s business.
The younger woman shrugs. “A person might wonder what you’re doing down here practicing sex sounds at this time of day.”
“It’s my fault,” Smithson volunteers.
“It does require two people, typically,” Cara agrees.
“Cara!” Ripley shouts, mortified. “We got new funding. Courtesy of Smithson.”
Cara blinks. “Well, fuck a duck. I’d say that calls for an orgasm or two.”
“Cara.”
“Shots! I meant orgasms as in shots! Tonight, at Alphabet.” She disappears beyond the lip of the canyon with a scream of “Oh God! Yes, yes, yes!”
Ripley takes a cleansing breath. Her face is so hot, she needs a cold shower.
Adams, you liar. That’s not why you need the shower.
She retrieves his notebook from the ground and hands it back. “I can’t believe you found a sponsor in the middle of the night, on a weekend, in the summer. Did you have to sell your firstborn? A spot in your lab? Your soul?” She cringes at how wooden the joke sounds.
“Perhaps a small piece of the last.” He holds his body stiffly, his cheeks still dashed with high color.
“Who’s our new sugar daddy?”
At this, he nudges his glasses upward and suppresses a smile so satisfied, you’d think he’d written the check himself.
“An anonymous sponsor. They’ll finance the rest of the season in exchange for first refusal on the purchase of any specimens. Depending on the value of your find, they’re requesting up to six months to pull the funding together.”
“Okay. Yes. We can do that.” It’s not unprecedented. The Field Museum needed multiple sponsors when they bought Sue the Tyrannosaurus.
“They also want the fossil to be prepared and studied at a mutually agreed-upon research facility. You’ll be first author on any publications.”
Ripley would rather not let Beauty out of her hands before a firm sale, but if she’s not doing the prep work, she could spend the winter with her dad. Get a job that would pay for a nicer place while she’s waiting for the money to buy his forever house.
“I’ll have to talk to Cara and Geraldine. We’d want to release preliminary scans immediately, of course.”
“Naturally.” He inclines his head regally, keeping his eyes on hers.
Ripley looks away first. “I’m very grateful for your incredible work securing funding. But that…we…we can’t be seen like that again. I don’t want rumors circulating about you and me.”
He says nothing, only bends to pick up his pencil, flashing the silhouette of his velodrome ass through his stretchy pants. When he stands up, his expression is neutral.
“I wasn’t the one screaming, Ripley.” Or kissing, he doesn’t say.
“Oh, like you didn’t—” She breaks off. His breath against her shirt, the seeking press of his hands—she can’t bring herself to use that as banter fuel.
Oh, Adams, you idiot. What have you done?
Nothing. She’s done nothing, fallen into nothing, and she’s not going to either.
She turns on her heel. “Send me Will’s abstract. I want the funding contract in writing; no handshake deals. And thank you!” she calls, not turning around. “Again!”
“You’re welcome,” he calls after her, his accent crisper than ever, his words full of British ambiguity.
She’s starting to think it’s better if neither of them says what they really mean.