Page 134 of Seduction Under the Southern Stars

But to my surprise, I didn’t feel uneasy, or restless. I looked at her, with the baby in her arms, and the only thing I felt was a warmth that spread through me like the whiskey from the Old Fashioned is spreading through me right now.

“Oh, that was so good,” she says, sighing as the credits roll. She tips up her glass and finishes off her drink, then looks up at the stars. “What a beautiful evening.”

“Mmm.” I can’t take my eyes off her. Unusually, my emotions are tangled, like a ball of wool after a kitten has played with it. I can’t seem to separate them. I feel hope and affection and something deeper and more visceral than that—I hesitate to call it love, because I can’t afford to love her in that way, but in my gut I know that’s what it is.

But even though when she was holding the baby my feelings were pure, now the unease creeps in. I don’t know where this is going. I can’t envision an outcome that will please everyone. She won’t come back to the UK with me—her father would never allow it for a start, even if she could gather the courage to travel. Am I really considering giving up my whole career, my friends, my colleagues, the life in England I love, for a one-week fling? Because although we’re old friends, that’s what it is, when it comes down to it. But I don’t want to lose her again.

And so I do what I usually do when I can’t make my mind up about something—I put it to the back of my mind and resolve to let Future Linc deal with it.

“I’d like another cocktail,” Elora says.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She glares at me. “You’re not my father.”

“No… I know, and if you really want one, it’s up to you, of course. But you haven’t yet suffered from a hangover, which makes you feel awful. Plus, I’d rather you weren’t comatose when I go seventy-five percent on you.”

Her eyes widen. “Ooh.”

I try not to laugh. “You want to go back to our cabin?”

“Oh my God yes, absolutely.”

Chuckling, I get up and take her hand. Despite our joint eagerness to return, we walk slowly, enjoying the beauty of the night sky and the ripening moon, and descend the stairs, smiling at the conversations we overhear, about sites and discoveries and excavation methods.

“I’m so glad I came,” Elora says. “It’s great being surrounded by people who are interested in the same things I am. I don’t feel such a freak.” She laughs.

I give her a quizzical look, though. “Do you normally, then?”

“Well, kinda. When you tell people you work in a museum, they tend to think you’re stuffy and humorless.”

“I haven’t found that, to be honest.”

“Well, yeah, but then you’re like Indiana Jones. You’re the cool side of archaeology. I’m the nerdy side.”

“Rubbish,” I scoff. “Look at you. You’re sex on legs. All you need is a backpack and a dagger on your hip, and you could easily pass for Lara Croft with those tits.”

The words are out before I can examine them for appropriateness, and Elora blushes scarlet.

“Sorry,” I apologize with a grin, “I forgot who I was talking to for a minute.”

“Really? Who would you normally say that to?”

“Someone like Joel.”

“You’d comment on his tits?”

That makes me laugh. “I meant that I use different language depending on who I’m talking to.”

“Oh, interesting. Dad always takes his namesake’s character in To Kill a Mockingbird very seriously.”

“He’s the same in his house as he is in public?”

“Something like that.”

“Yeah. Well. He’s a lot more noble than I am.”

We walk silently for a while.

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