Chapter 17
CALVIN
Each morning, afternoon, and evening is now full of perfect moments. A lingering look across the breakfast table. Georgia’s hand brushing mine as she passes me something. The way she smiles when she catches me watching her work.
Over the next few days, we steal as much time together as we can. There are talks in my tent after Ella falls asleep, the baby monitor turned on in case she stirs. Lunches where we sit next to each other, doing our best to not touch so as not to be obvious.
We’ve been at the site for three weeks now, and it feels like a lifetime.
The person I was when we arrived—wound tight, controlling, terrified of failure—seems like a stranger.
Maybe because I’m starting to understand what Georgia has been trying to tell me from the beginning: some things can’t be rushed. Some discoveries require patience.
Some relationships too.
I spend my days with Ella now, and it’s become the part of my routine I look forward to most. We build and destroy and put new toys together. We help Fatima out in the kitchen. We practice words, and she’s learning new ones daily. Yesterday she said “excavate,” or her version of it: “ex-ba-bate.”
“Close enough,” I told her, grinning.
“Ya!” she shouted.
I never knew I could enjoy the company of a toddler. But Ella is funny and curious and surprisingly good at teaching me things.
A bonus is that, while I entertain her, I get to watch Georgia work. I see why she was so respected in academia. Every decision is thoughtful. Every instruction is clear. Her team doesn’t just respect her; they genuinely like her.
And I… well. I’m starting to think what I feel goes beyond like.
The thought should terrify me. Usually it does. But watching Georgia crouch over a new fragment, her face lit with excitement as she explains something to Yasmin, I just feel warm. Content.
Happy.
“Cav-cav!” Ella holds up a stick covered in sand.
“Very impressive,” I tell her seriously. “That’s an excellent stick.”
“Ya!” she agrees, then throws it.
These are my days now. Sticks and sandcastles and stolen glances at a woman I’m not supposed to be falling for.
My nights, though. My nights are Georgia.
It starts innocently enough. After Ella goes to sleep, Georgia and I meet in the documentation tent to review the day’s findings. We discuss patterns and what it all can mean. There haven’t been any more big discoveries, but the team is making progress on the map.
Somewhere around day four after our first kiss, the conversations shift.
We’re sitting closer than necessary, our shoulders touching as we lean over the work table. The lantern casts soft shadows, and the camp is quiet around us.
“Tell me more about your grandmother,” Georgia says, setting down the photograph she’s been studying. “What was she like?”
I lean back in my chair, surprised by the question. We’ve mostly talked about the project, about her theories, about Henry’s research. There hasn’t been much personal talk since the night we first kissed.
“She was…” I search for the right words. “Fierce. Funny. She could make you feel like the most important person in the world just by listening to you. And she told the most amazing stories.”
“About Jumayah?”
“About everything. But yes, especially about Jumayah. She’d describe the markets, the smells, the sounds, the colors.
The way the light looked at sunset over the desert.
The taste of her mother’s cooking.” I smile, remembering.
“She made this place sound magical. Like something out of a fairy tale.”
“And now you’re here,” Georgia says softly. “In the place she loved.”
“Yeah. I just wish she could see it. Could know that her stories led to something real. That I didn’t just listen—that I acted on them.”
Georgia’s hand finds mine on the table. “She knows. Wherever she is, she knows.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment.
“What about Henry?” I ask. “What was he like?”
Georgia’s face transforms, sadness and fondness mixing together. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. But also scattered. He’d get so absorbed in his theories that he’d forget to eat. I’d find him in his office at midnight, surrounded by papers, still working on some problem.”
“Sounds familiar,” I tease gently.
“I learned from the best.” She traces a pattern on the table with her free hand.
“He was the first person who really saw me. Not as my parents’ daughter, not as a prodigy to be shaped and molded, but as myself.
He asked what I thought, what I wanted, what fascinated me. And then he listened. Really listened.”
“That’s what good mentors do.”
“He was more than a mentor, though. He was… he was family. The family I chose. When he died, I felt like I’d lost the person who understood me best in the world.”
“I know that feeling.” Our eyes meet. “When my grandmother died, it was like losing my anchor.”
“And now you’re here, honoring her memory. Finding what she always talked about.”
“Because of you,” I point out. “You’re the one making the discoveries. Proving the theories. Doing the brilliant work.”
“We’re doing it together,” she corrects. “This whole team.”
“But especially you.” I turn my hand over so our palms are pressed together. “I was so stupid when we started. Hovering, micromanaging, making everything harder than it needed to be. You could have quit. Probably should have.”
“The thought crossed my mind,” she admits with a small smile. “Especially after the sandstorm incident.”
“I was an ass.”
“You were scared.”
“I was an ass,” I insist. “But you called me out. You didn’t let me get away with it. And you kept doing excellent work despite me being difficult.”
“Well, you’ve gotten significantly less difficult.” Her thumb strokes across my palm, sending sparks up my arm.
We’re sitting very close now. I’m not sure when that happened, but I can count the freckles scattered across her nose from the three weeks under the desert sun.
“Calvin,” she says softly.
“Georgia.”
“I’m really glad I came here.” Her smile is gentle. “You’re not who I thought you were. When you showed up at my cottage, I saw a rich guy who thought he could buy anything. But you’re not that. You’re complex and thoughtful and surprisingly good with toddlers.”
“You’re not who I thought you were either. I saw your lecture videos and thought you were brilliant but impractical. Too focused on intuition, not enough on data. But you’re both. You follow your instincts but back them up with meticulous work. You’re disciplined and creative at the same time.”
“We’re quite the pair,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.” My hand comes up to cup her face. “We are.”
The kiss feels inevitable. Like we’ve been moving toward this moment all evening. Her lips are soft against mine, and touching her, I feel like I’ve suddenly become weightless.
We kiss for a long time, the maps and pottery photographs forgotten. At some point I pull her onto my lap, and she comes willingly, her fingers threading through my hair.
“We’re still in the documentation tent,” she murmurs against my lips. “Anyone could walk in.”
“Then maybe we should go somewhere more private.”
She pulls back to look at me, and I can see the desire in her eyes mixed with uncertainty. “Are you sure?” she asks.
“I’m sure. Are you?”
“Yes. But Calvin… I need you to understand. I have Ella. She’s my priority. Always. And I’m not looking for casual. I can’t do casual, not with her watching, not with—”
“Georgia.” I cut her off gently. “I’m not interested in casual either. I don’t know exactly what this is yet, but I know it matters. You matter.”
She studies my face for a long moment, then nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” She stands, taking my hand.
With her free hand, she grabs the baby monitor, and we slip out of the documentation tent into the cool night. The camp is dark except for a few lanterns left burning for safety. Everyone else has gone to bed.
We move quietly toward my tent, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of sneaking around like teenagers. At the entrance, Georgia pauses.
“This is really happening?”
“Only if you want it to.” I squeeze her hand. “No pressure, Georgia. We can just talk if you prefer. Or go back to reviewing pottery fragments.”
She laughs softly. “I definitely do not want to review pottery fragments right now.”
“No?”
“No.” She rises on her tiptoes to kiss me. “I want you.”
The words send heat flooding through me. “Then come inside.”
We step into my tent, and I secure the entrance behind us. The space is small, intimate. My cot takes up most of the room, with a small desk and camping chair in the corner.
Georgia looks around, then back at me. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I pull her close. “Having second thoughts?”
“Calvin,” she breathes. “Stop talking and kiss me.”
So, I do.