Chapter 15
CALVIN
It’s past eleven when I realize I’m still sitting in the documentation tent, staring at photographs of pottery fragments by the light of a battery-powered lantern.
I should go to bed. Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day of excavation. But I’m wired, my mind racing with the implications of Georgia’s mapping discovery. If she’s right—and she usually is—we’re close. So close to finding the main temple structure.
“Still working?”
I look up to find Georgia in the tent entrance, backlit by moonlight. She’s changed into clean clothes, her hair down for once, falling in waves around her shoulders.
“Could ask you the same thing,” I say.
“Ella finally crashed. Took three stories and two lullabies, but she’s out.” Georgia walks over to the work table, looking at the spread of photographs and reference materials. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Couldn’t stop thinking about the mapping system. There are implications I’m still working through.”
“Same.” She settles into the chair across from me, pulling one of the photographs closer. “I keep seeing patterns, but I’m not sure if they’re real or if I’m just tired and seeing what I want to see.”
“Show me.”
For the next twenty minutes, we discuss the pottery markings, comparing them to maps and surveys. Georgia traces patterns with her finger, explaining her reasoning, and I follow along, asking questions, offering observations.
It’s the easiest conversation we’ve had. No tension. No defensiveness. Just two people absorbed in solving a puzzle together.
“Here,” she says, pointing to a cluster of symbols. “I think this represents a water source. But water sources shift over thousands of years, so I need to figure out where it would have been during the temple period.”
She sits back, rubbing her eyes. “This is going to take forever.”
“But you love it.”
“What?”
“This. The puzzle. The slow reveal of information. You love it.” I gesture at the materials spread before us. “I can see it in your face when you’re working. You light up.”
Georgia blinks, surprised. “I… yeah. I do love it. Even when it’s frustrating, even when it takes forever, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.”
“That’s rare. Most people never find that.”
“Have you? Found what you love?”
The question catches me off guard. “I thought I had. Building the company, making deals, acquisitions. I’m good at it.”
“That’s not the same as loving it.”
“No,” I admit. “It’s not.”
“So, what would you do? If you could do anything?”
I look at the maps, the ancient pottery, the evidence of a civilization that existed thousands of years ago. “Maybe this. Not professionally—I don’t have the training—but funding projects like this one. Finding lost pieces of history. Making sure stories like my grandmother’s don’t disappear.”
She is watching me with an expression I can’t read. “That’s beautiful, Calvin.”
“It’s impractical.”
“So? The best things usually are.” She grins at that, and the playfulness looks good on her.
We fall into silence, but it’s comfortable, the kind of quiet that happens between people who’ve stopped performing and competing.
“Can I ask you something?” Georgia says finally. “Why does this project matter so much to you? And don’t say it’s about your grandmother. I mean, yes, obviously it is, but there’s something more, isn’t there?”
I should deflect. Change the subject. But something about the late hour, the gentle light, the way she’s looking at me with genuine curiosity instead of judgment… it makes me want to answer honestly.
“My father thinks I’m wasting my time,” I say. “He always has. When I told him about buying this site, he called it my grandmother’s ‘nonsense’ and ‘fairy tales.’ He thinks I should be in New York, focused entirely on the business.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think… I think I spent my whole life doing what he wanted. Being who he wanted. He groomed me to take over the company from the time I could walk. Private tutors, business classes, networking events while other kids were playing sports. My childhood was a long training program for becoming him.”
“Geez.” Georgia’s expression softens. “That sounds lonely.”
“It was. Except for my grandmother.” Here comes the familiar tightness in my chest whenever I think of her. “She was the only one who saw me as a person instead of an investment. She told me stories, taught me to cook, listened when I talked. After my mother died, she basically raised me.”
“How old were you when you lost your mother?”
“Three. I don’t really remember her. My grandmother kept her alive for me through stories. She told me about my mother’s childhood, her dreams, her love of art and history.”
“And she was from Jumayah?”
“My grandmother, yes. My mother was born in New York, but she grew up hearing the same stories I did. This place was mythical to both of us. The magical homeland we’d never seen.
” I pause, feeling exposed. “When my grandmother died three years ago, I felt like I’d lost the only person who really knew me.
And I made a promise at her funeral that someday I’d come here.
See where she was from. Understand her stories. ”
“So, this isn’t about proving your father wrong,” Georgia says quietly. “It’s about honoring her.”
“Yes. But also…” I struggle to find the words. “It’s about proving to myself that I can be something other than what he made me. That I have value beyond the company. That her stories… and her… she mattered.”
Georgia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. The simple gesture sends warmth flooding through me. “They matter,” she says firmly. “She matters. And you matter, Calvin. Not because of what you can build or buy or prove. Just because you’re you.”
“Thank you,” I manage, not sure if I believe her but sure that I want to.
She doesn’t let go of my hand, and I find I don’t want her to.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks “About why I said yes to this project?”
“Please.”
“It wasn’t just the money and working somewhere I’ve always wanted to explore.
I mean, yes, the money is life-changing.
But mostly… I needed to prove I still had it.
The skill, the instinct, the ability to do significant work.
” She looks down at our joined hands. “After Ella was born, I left academia. I told myself it was a choice, that I wanted to focus on being a mother. And I did want that. But I also… I was scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“That I couldn’t do both. That being a good mother meant giving up being a good archaeologist. That I’d have to choose.
” Her voice drops. “My parents were academics. Both of them. And they were brilliant at their work but terrible at parenting. I grew up in libraries and museums and lecture halls. I learned three languages before I learned how to make friends. They invested in my education but forgot to invest in me.”
“That sounds familiar. Lonely, too.”
“It was. I was surrounded by knowledge but starved for affection. And I swore when I had Ella that I’d be different.
That she’d know she was loved, that she’d have a childhood, that I’d be present.
” She meets my eyes. “But then I wondered if I’d swung too far the other way.
If I’d given up so much of myself that there was nothing left. ”
“You haven’t given up anything. You’re doing both. Brilliantly.”
“I’m trying, but it’s hard. And I’m so scared I’m failing at both.” Her voice cracks. “That I’m not giving Ella enough attention, and I’m not giving the work enough focus, and I’m just… mediocre at everything.”
“Georgia.” I squeeze her hand. “You’re not mediocre at anything. You’re extraordinary. You’re patient and brilliant and dedicated. Ella is lucky to have you.”
She blinks rapidly, and I realize there are tears in her eyes. “Sorry,” she says with a watery laugh. “I didn’t mean to get emotional. I’m just tired.”
“Don’t apologize. We’re both tired.”
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown?”
“Something like that.”
We sit there, hands still joined across the table, and something shifts. The air feels different. Charged. I should let go. Should pull back. Should remember every rule I’ve made about not mixing business and personal.
But I don’t want to.
“Calvin,” she says softly, “can I ask you something else?”
“Sure,” I say, though my heart is racing fast and I’m not sure if I’m more nervous or excited.
“Why are you single?”
The question surprises me. “What?”
“I looked you up. Before I agreed to this project. ‘One of New York’s most eligible bachelors,’ according to People magazine. So, why are you still single?”
I should deflect this too. But that same urge toward honesty keeps me talking.
“Because I’m not good at relationships. Every woman I’ve dated eventually wants more than I can give.
More time, more attention, more emotional availability.
They want someone who’ll put them first, and I…
can’t seem to do that. Work always comes first. Until they leave, and then I realize too late what I lost.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? I thought so, once or twice. But it never felt like what people describe. Maybe I’m just… incapable of it.”
“I don’t believe that,” Georgia says. “I think you’re scared of it.”
The accuracy of that statement takes my breath away. “Maybe,” I admit. “My father trained me to see everything as a transaction. Relationships became one more thing to manage, to control. And when you can’t control something…”
“You push it away.”
“Yeah.”
Georgia is quiet for a moment, studying our joined hands.
“For what it’s worth, I understand. After Mike—Ella’s father—left, I convinced myself I was better off alone.
That my judgment was broken, that I couldn’t trust myself to choose well.
And it’s easier, in some ways. Safer. No one can disappoint you if you don’t let them in. ”
“But?” I sense there’s a but coming.
“But lonely,” she finishes softly. “It’s also really lonely.”
Our eyes meet, and the air between us feels electric.
I should let go of her hand. Should stand up, say goodnight, go to my tent. Instead, I hear myself ask, “Are you lonely right now?”
“No,” she whispers. “Right now, I’m… not lonely.”
I don’t remember deciding to stand. Don’t remember walking around the table. But suddenly I’m there, standing in front of her, and she’s looking up at me with those warm brown eyes, and I can see her pulse fluttering at her throat.
“Georgia,” I say, and my voice comes out rough. “I’m not good at this. At feelings, at vulnerability, at any of it.”
“I’m not great at it either.”
“And you drive me crazy half the time.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“But right now, I really want to kiss you.”
Her breath hitches. “Right now, I really want you to.”
I cup her face with one hand, giving her every chance to pull away, to change her mind, to remember all the reasons this is a bad idea.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she rises slightly from her chair, closing the distance between us. Our lips meet, soft and tentative at first. Testing. Learning.
Then she makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and everything changes. The kiss deepens, and it’s nothing like I expected. It’s not calculated or controlled or manageable. It’s overwhelming and consuming and absolutely perfect.
Her hands come up to grip my shirt, pulling me closer. My other hand finds her waist, fingers spreading across the curve of her hip. She tastes like mint tea and something sweet, and I never want to stop kissing her.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against hers.
“That was…” I start.
“Yeah,” she agrees breathlessly.
We stand here, wrapped around each other in the lamplight, and I feel something in my chest loosen. Some knot of tension I’ve been carrying for years, maybe decades. I don’t know what this means. Don’t know how it changes things between us. Don’t know if I’m capable of being what she needs.
But right now, at this moment, I’m just… happy.