Her Dirty Archeologists by Mika Lane

Chapter 21

FLEUR HOLMES

“Hey, Brad. Thought you weren’t supposed to be over here.”

He hitched his pants and looked around as if he hadn’t already made doubly sure the guys had gone to town before he made his way over.

Sneaky bastard.

And he was in luck. They’d be gone the better part of the day. They’d hesitated for a moment before leaving me alone, but I reminded them I was the one to chase off our last interlopers.

Couldn’t argue with that fact.

Besides, and not that I shared this with the guys, but I had a full can of pepper spray in my pocket ready to take out anyone who threatened our work.

And that included Brad. If I felt threatened, he was fucked.

After he’d been sent packing a couple nights earlier, his regular visits had come to an abrupt halt. But apparently, he hadn’t been completely deterred because the moment he saw me alone, he came slithering right over.

He took a long look at my boobs. Because, of course. “So, whatcha working on?” he asked.

Was he kidding? I was digging in the goddamn ground, just like he did all day.

Or was supposed to.

Seriously. The guy spent so much time flapping his gums, I don’t know how he got anything done.

“Well, Brad, since our pottery shard findings have gone missing, I’m really hoping to find some more.”

He nodded cheerfully. “Well, where there was one, there should be many, right?”

Had this guy really studied archeology?

“So, Fleur, when you coming over for that beer?”

How ’bout never?

“I don’t think that’s in the cards for me, Brad,” I said, turning my attention back to the little area I was carefully dusting. I was pretty sure I was getting close to finding something. Something that I’d hang on to with life and limb. No one else would be stealing anything around here.

Drake had confided in me he believed that over time he’d developed a sixth sense about locating treasures. He’d get a feeling over a certain piece of ground, and more often than not, there’d be something buried there.

I was beginning to feel I might experience the same. I’d been gently removing dirt around a mysterious mound all day, using tiny, precision tools, and something was telling me it was going to pay off at some point.

Hopefully while I was still there.

“You know, Fleur, you should be nicer to me,” Brad said.

I looked up from my work, surprised he hadn’t taken the hint and split.

“Sorry? What was that?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “I said, you should be nice to me.”

“I am nice to you.”

He dropped his head back and laughed. “I said nicer.” He licked his lips and shifted in his trousers.

Gross.

I discreetly touched the pepper spray in my pocket for confidence.

The man was seriously creeping me out. Like shivers running up my spine creeping me out.

I was tired.

As much as I loved being on the dig with the guys, this stalker dude, coupled with constantly looking over my shoulder for looters, was taking its toll.

They didn’t teach us about this stuff in class—the cold, hard vulnerabilities of being in the middle of nowhere, acquiring artifacts that sell for a lot of money on the black market. Both of those things added a layer of danger on top of the excitement of learning about ancient civilizations that took some of the fun out of it.

And I felt that acutely now, with the guys being gone for the afternoon.

Then a hand landed on my shoulder.

I hoped that wasn’t Brad. I really did. Because no good was going to come from him touching me.

But it was.

I jumped to my feet and pulled out the pepper spray, pointing it right in his face, my finger on the trigger.

His eyes widened, and he jumped back.

“Touch me again, and you’ll get the full effect of what pepper spray has to offer.”

“Jesus,” he said and turned to hustle back to his own camp.

“Crazy bitch,” I heard him mumbling until he was out of our site.

Cripes. I gathered my tools and headed back to the kitchen area, falling into a camp chair and propping up my foot.

Fortunately, my twisted ankle was healing nicely, and while I was still careful about putting weight on it, I didn’t much rely on the cane Drake had given me. I wasn’t ready to run a marathon, and was still wearing a sneaker with the laces undone, but the improvement was clear.

And I had no one to thank for that more than the guys. They’d taken such good care of me after I hurt myself

In more ways than one.

I looked at my watch and realized they’d be back at any moment. I debated telling them about Brad because I didn’t want to start any wars, and I knew they’d be inclined to give him a harsher ‘talking to’ than he’d already gotten from me.

And that ‘talking to’ might just include some flying fists.

Just sayin’.

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