Page 30 of Finders Keepers

“And…scene,” Quentin says as the front doors close behind us. His voice is quiet, and his shoulders rise and fall a little more rapidly than makes sense for the amount of exertion it took to walk down the stairs and out of the Castle.

“Good work in there,” I say, patting him on the back, then snatching my hand away as if that might somehow undo the gesture.

Contact between us right now feels extra charged, and I’m already addled enough.

“Um. I mean. We did good work. Improvising. Everything. That we improvised.” At least my cringing is of the inward variety and doesn’t seem to show on my face.

“Nina…” he starts.

“Because that would be ridiculous. If we…If you and I…I mean. We could…we could never. Right?”

“Right.” His lips press together, making his smile look slightly pained. He bows his head and more quietly repeats himself. “Right.”

“Um, I think I’m going to walk home,” I say.

“I need to get some…air. In my lungs and, um, also the compressed kind from the hardware store, for my dad.” Dad has not asked me to do this, but I can’t imagine he’ll mind a surprise can of it considering he goes through one every two weeks or so.

Mostly I need an excuse to get away from Quentin for a minute, to experience a break in the lust coursing through me so I can think straight again.

Until now, any attraction between us felt so far-fetched, it was easily dismissed as me clamoring for a distraction from my woes.

But after what just happened, the desperation to have him is charging at me full force.

There’s no dismissing what I’m feeling at the moment as a coping mechanism, because it is not helping me cope with anything at all. The opposite, really.

“Oh. Sure. I have some errands to run anyway,” he says, eyes focused on the car door’s handle instead of on me.

“I’ll meet you at Hanako’s tomorrow night?

” I ask. “And we can figure out next steps while we’re there.

For the treasure, I mean. Not for…us. We’re…

we’re good.” The ring on my finger suddenly catches a beam of sunlight, creating sparkles in my peripheral vision.

I nearly forgot it was there. “Oh, you can have this back now.” I twist it off and attempt to tuck it into his palm, but it falls onto the gravel at his feet.

He bends down to pick it up. When he’s upright again he has that annoyed crease between his eyebrows and it looks like he’s about to say something. Whatever it is, I don’t think I can handle it right now. I cut him off with a quick “See you tomorrow” before I turn and speed walk away.

“See you tomorrow,” he agrees, although I can barely hear him with how much distance I have successfully managed to put between us in the last two seconds.

I consider going straight home, where I can at least dig out one of my sex toys from the bottom of my still-packed suitcase.

But my mom might be around, and she’s going to know that something happened just by the expression on my face.

It is her superpower, and one I do not want to risk encountering.

Instead I head over to Best That You Can Brew, where I snag a place at the raw-edged wood bar stretching across the front window.

I get a fancy latte and an almond croissant and slowly consume both while reading over the draft of a journal article Sabrina sent a few weeks ago and has been expecting comments on.

It’s well written and interesting and hits me with a sudden wallop of sorrow.

This was how Sabrina and I bonded over the years.

By looking over each other’s drafts. Sharing a hotel room at conferences.

Taking turns giving pep talks before important meetings.

And now she’s still living that life, spending the summer putting the finishing touches on her first monograph and getting published in The American Historical Review , while I’m spending it traipsing about my hometown looking for something that might not even exist and being intensely sexually frustrated.

Will she still want my notes on her work if I never find my way back to academia?

Still tell me stories about her students when I can’t counter with ones of my own?

Leaving the field, even inadvertently, often makes you a sort of pariah.

Sabrina might still want to be my friend, but I can’t help thinking about the ways that friendship might change and fizzle out now that I’m no longer the same Nina she’s used to.

It’s getting more and more crowded in the café as Catoctin’s surprisingly large young professional population pops in for lunch.

I look around, expecting to see a bunch of familiar-but-older faces, yet…

I don’t recognize a soul. For the first time, it strikes me that this might actually be a desirable place to live.

When I was young, it seemed like a sort of vortex—a place that sucked everyone who was born here into it and made it almost impossible for them to get out.

Because why else would people stay? I didn’t understand it.

But now, with eyes used to urban sprawl and a biological clock that ticks a bit louder when I see a couple with a baby walk past, I think I’m starting to get why someone might choose a life here.

Huh.

Once I respond to Sabrina’s email with my scant suggestions for improvement (seriously, she’s brilliant) and reach the dregs of my mug, I decide to head out and free up my seat for the many people now waiting for a spot.

I continue up Main Street, checking out what is here now. A plant store called Leopold Bloom’s advertises a sale on fiddle-leaf fig trees on its sidewalk sign. I wish Quentin were here so I could nudge him with my elbow and flirtingly joke about getting him one.

I really wish he were here in general.

Wait. No. I don’t mean that. He isn’t someone I can let myself become attached to. Not only could he wind up hurting me again, but he’s too much of a distraction. One with pretty eyes and strong hands and a warm mouth and that stupid charming smile that makes me so mad , and…

The point is, Quentin Bell is trouble. I knew it from the moment I saw him pacing on his porch three weeks ago. And okay, maybe I was wrong about what kind of trouble he would be, but he is trouble nonetheless.

Clearly we need to speed this up a bit, and the only way within my control is to find the treasure as soon as possible.

Then I’ll have enough money to take whatever opportunity comes my way.

More important, I won’t have to spend the whole eight weeks here.

Because if I do…I can’t trust that I’ll be able to stay out of trouble. Or that trouble will stay out of me.

As I stroll back in the direction of my parents’ house, my body tingles in all sorts of distracting places as it plays a highlight reel of the few moments I managed to collect today: the heat of Quentin’s breath on my skin, his hardness pressed against me, his fingers gripping my hip…

Oh god. I’m out here giving a whole new meaning to getting horny on Main.

That’s it. I take a hard left instead of continuing down the street. I’m going to the library. I need to figure out if this treasure exists and where it is. And there’s nothing sexy about the special collections room, so I’ll be safe there.

A whispery voice that may be my conscience asks if I should be doing this without Quentin, or without at least giving him a heads-up. But it’s only research, and if I find anything promising I’ll make sure to tell him. It’s not like I’m going to Sprangbur and hunting for the thing alone.

Not this time at least.

Besides, the special collections room is open today but closed on the weekends.

I am simply saving us time. Also, Mrs. MacDonald is not Quentin’s biggest fan because of the whole gum thing.

Which is why it makes no sense to text Quentin to let him know I’m doing this.

I can’t let him invite himself along, for both Mrs. MacDonald reasons and my needing space from him reasons.

So really, this is the best thing I could be doing. For both of us.

Especially because of how badly I wish we were doing it together.