Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“Very punny, Professor.” I sipped my coffee, admiring his slightly hooked nose and strong chin as he closed his laptop. “Twelve hours ago you wanted to avoid that man like the plague. Now you’re in porny cahoots. Where did the change of heart come from?”
“You.” He smiled. “I’m going to my room to shower and change. I’ll—”
I grabbed his wrist. “What do you mean…me?”
“I don’t know how to explain it, but when I saw Gerard’s text last night, it seemed foolish to ignore him. In a roundabout way, you pointed that out…and you were correct. I suppose I also have to thank you for adding to my workload.” Alistair released a faux put-upon sigh and wriggled out of my hold. “See you later.”
“Wait. I’ll help. I insist. We had a deal, remember? We’re still taking Paris together.”
I sounded desperate, and I knew it. I’d had a feeling Alistair would happily give me the brush-off after yesterday’s renegade kiss, and I’d been right. I didn’t want to chase him down and beg him to see the city with me. I wanted him to want me…or at least need my help. I was damn tired of feeling useless. I needed a purpose.
“Winnie…”
“And if I’m responsible for giving you more work, I need to do my share. I’m not a professional, but I can do something. You need someone to research modern porn for the sake of comparison, I’m your guy. I’m gay, and I know how to do gay sex. Who’s qualified? This guy.” I pointed at my chest enthusiastically.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said kindly. “Have a good day, Winnie.”
I sat alone, nursing my lukewarm coffee while thinking about how to weasel my way into the professor’s world. I could Wikipedia the hell out of ancient gay sexcapades and maybe learn how to decipher hieroglyphics. That couldn’t be hard to do.
I opened the browser on my cell, glancing up briefly to thank the server for topping off my beverage just as my previous viewing history popped up—How to influence your boss’s opinion, How to be a better listener, How to ask for a promotion, How to deserve a promotion, How not to take things personally, How to make a million dollars.
Huh.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek and frowned at what was either a plea for help or the index to any iteration of “Fill-in-the-Blank For Dummies.” This was my crisis of confidence on full display, and it wasn’t a good look for me.
At thirty-fucking-five, I’d hoped to have a thriving career, a fabulous house in the hills, an adoring husband, and a cute man-bag-sized pup that Liza wouldn’t hate. I was failing on all counts. Okay, yes, my pity party for one was currently happening in Paris, France, so I had that going for me but not much else.
Out of the blue, a sense of renewed purpose surged through my veins. I had to make my time here count. I refused to walk away from this trip with nothing to show besides a social media feed filled with gratuitous selfies and a bag of bejeweled treats for my friends. I didn’t want to be the guy who took a break to find himself. I wanted to make a difference.
How? Well…like it or not, I was going to help Alistair.
I cleared my browser history and typed: Ancient Egypt.
Fuck. This was a lot.
The timeline began in 3000 BC and continued into the Roman era. I skimmed through entries as I picked at cold eggs and a croissant.
Egyptians were inventors, educators, architects. They wore makeup, loved animals—especially cats—and women had equal rights. Ooh, I liked these people.
Doctors practiced specialized medicine, and yes, they saved organs for reasons I wasn’t clear about. I assumed it had something to do with the afterlife. There seemed to be a strong emphasis on preparing for your next act. I made a mental note to ask Alistair about it.
Later. I was curious about modern conundrums too.
I opened a new tab and googled Gerard Poitier and Colin…last name unknown.
Interesting. Gerard Poitier was forty-eight, born in Nantes, educated in Paris, Egypt, and London, and had a list of credentials longer than my arm. He’d been on site during some exciting excavations and was widely considered one of the most important Egyptologists of his time…alongside Alistair Creighton of the UK.
They were peers, and from the photos online, it appeared as though once upon a time, they’d been good friends. Until Colin fucked that up.
Okay, that wasn’t fair, but there was a story here and I was curious. I ordered a latte I didn’t need and kept scrolling.
Colin Farrington, age forty-two, born in Buckinghamshire, educated in Oxford, and blah, blah, blah. I moved to his photo and frowned.
Damn it, he was really handsome. Blond, blue-eyed, trim, and well-dressed. He looked smart and sophisticated, and yep, I hated him.