Rogue Protector, page 4
Another smile, this one full of pride. “My graduate students. We’re researching an endangered orchid that only grows up in the mountains outside of Las Ollas.”
“An endangered orchid?” I almost choke on my beer, but Mikayla’s completely serious, and bright streaks of copper shine in her eyes as she narrows them at me.
“Yes. An orchid.” With a huff, she reaches for her napkin and unfolds it across her lap. “What’s so unbelievable about that?”
“Nothing.” Holding up a hand, I duck my head so I can meet her gaze. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been around people in a while. I guess I forgot how to be—“
“Not a jerk?” Mikayla asks.
“Something like that.” I go for another sip of beer, then stop with the bottle halfway to my mouth. Alcohol won’t stop me from chewing on my boot again, and it’s been a long time since I actually wanted to talk to someone. “Can we start over?”
The bartender returns with two plates of tacos and slides one in front of each of us. “Anything else?” he asks, and Mikayla eyes my beer.
“Any good?” At my nod, she adds, “Then I’ll have what he’s having. Also another bottle of water, please.”
As soon as the guy turns away, she holds out her hand again. “Dr. Mikayla Salim. But most people call me Mik.”
“Major General Austin Pritchard. United States Air Force.” The formal introduction rolls off my tongue like it’s second nature, and it is. Except that’s not who I am anymore. Flames crawl up my neck to my cheeks, and I quickly add, “Retired.”
Mikayla’s brows shoot up, and she gives me a short whistle. Her fingers are warm, and I don’t want to let go, this sudden, unexpected wave of intense connection barreling through me so hard and fast, I worry it’s going to knock me off my stool. “And I thought doctor was an impressive title.”
“Well, I never got further than a couple of master’s degrees, so…” It feels good to smile. Like I’m reclaiming a piece of myself I lost long ago. “Doctor sounds pretty damn impressive to me.”
“So what are you doing in San Cristóbal de las Casas, Major General Austin Pritchard?” Mikayla settles a little more solidly onto her stool, and the wiggle of her ass draws my gaze for a split second.
Eyes up, Pritchard. I focus on my plate as I answer. “Just Austin. I retired a little over a month ago. Needed a break. Losing myself on the Maya Trail for a while sounded like a good idea.”
After a generous bite of a taco, she studies me, those wide brown eyes taking in every detail. “Sounded?”
I chuckle. “Picked up on that, huh?”
“Maybe.”
Her smile makes me want to tell her everything. Just start talking and not stop, but that’s probably because I haven’t spoken more than a few words to anyone in since I left the United States.
“Well, turns out, spending six weeks alone with only your thoughts for company isn’t the best idea when those thoughts are pretty damn insistent that you relive all the mistakes you’ve ever made in your life.”
I wash the bitter admission down with a swig of beer, shocked at how easy it is to share my failings with someone I don’t know. Dani tried to get me to go to therapy when I was sent home from Pakistan. Said it helped her—and Trevor. Maybe I should have listened.
“Oof. Well, I don’t drink very often,” Mik says as she lifts her bottle and tips it towards mine, “but I’ve found when I do, my inner voice tends to take a hike.”
“Shit. That’s what got me into this mess.” When Mik’s brow furrows, I snort. “Taking a hike?”
“Oh, crap.” She lowers her eyes to her beer, then bursts out laughing. It’s the sweetest sound, full of abandon, and I finally pick up my bottle and touch the neck to hers.
“To hiking?” I ask.
“No. No, no, no.” She shakes her head, and her bronzed cheeks take on the hue of a summer sunset. “To a meal with a stranger who’ll hopefully forgive me for making a complete fool of myself.”
“Nothing to forgive, Mikayla. Mik. This is the best meal I’ve had since I arrived in Mexico.”
Her blush deepens, and fuck. I wish this didn’t have to end with dinner. But it does, because no one deserves to see my damage in the light of day. For the next hour though, I plan on enjoying every minute of my time with the gorgeous Dr. Mikayla Salim. Because why the hell not?
Chapter Six
Mikayla
The four-hour nap I took after Corey brought me back to the hotel was amazing—and desperately needed—but it doesn’t bode well for being able to sleep tonight. Which is why I’m still sitting in the hotel bar long after midnight chatting with this handsome, retired Air Force officer.
Austin’s short, dark hair narrows to a widow’s peak, and every once in a while, the light catches a strand of gray. He wears two or three days’ worth of stubble along his jaw, and I think his hazel eyes have seen too much. Tattoos cover his right arm from his wrist to his elbow, with words I haven’t yet been able to read. They’re not in English, that much I know. But languages were never my strong suit. Beyond Latin.
“Mikayla?” Austin leans a little closer. “Did you hear me?”
I fiddle with my napkin, fighting the embarrassment racing up my neck to my cheeks. “Sorry. I was trying to figure out what those words mean,” I say, gesturing to the ink.
A mix of pride and sadness plays across his features. “Loosely translated, they say, ‘We won’t give up, weren’t born for that. We’ll throw ourselves into the battle for honor.’”
“That’s beautiful.”
Silence stretches between us, and I stifle a yawn.
“I’m keeping you up,” Austin says as he finishes off his tequila. “You probably have an early wake-up call.”
Offering him a sheepish smile, I nod and polish off the last sip of my beer. I don’t normally drink, but after an attack, the meds often leave me so wired, a beer is about the only thing that lets me fall asleep. “We have another five days to finish up our research, and I put us behind. After my asthma attack, one of my grad students had to take two hours out of his day to drive me back here, plus, they had to do my share of the work today.”
“You couldn’t exactly help it,” Austin says, and when I meet his gaze, I find understanding, sympathy, and a hint of encouragement.
“No, but I’ll have to make up for it tomorrow.” Reaching into my cross-body purse for my cash, I pull out four hundred pesos and drop them on the table. Hours ago, when the restaurant started to empty, we found a corner booth where most of the noise faded away and it was just the two of us, talking about…nothing really. Casual conversation. Movies. Books. Music. “My treat,” I say when Austin frowns and reaches for his wallet.
“You can’t really expect me to let you pay?” He straightens, his broad shoulders stretching the black t-shirt across his chest. “Dr. Salim, where I’m from—“
“Mik. Or Mikayla, remember?” I brush my fingers over his wrist, and he stares down at the contact, where the heat of him seems to burn my skin. I’m not usually so brazen. No. Scratch that. I’m never this brazen.
When he looks up, the storm of emotion in his eyes shocks me.
Pulling away, mortified, I stammer, “S-sorry. I…I’m tired, and I wasn’t thinking.”
“Am I’m supposed to be angry? That was…nice.” Austin catches my hand in his, holding on as he stands and helps me to my feet. “When I came to the bar tonight, I was in a shitty mood, and my entire goal was to drink myself out of it. Or at least, drink enough I could forget about…a lot of things. Instead, I traded what would have been half a bottle of tequila for conversation with a smart, beautiful, and fascinating woman I really want to see again.”
I don’t know what to say to him, and the silence doesn’t do anything for my nerves. Because I want to see him again too. If only we weren’t two strangers in a tiny hotel in the Mexican highlands. There’s zero chance this will be anything more than what it’s been. One of the best evenings I’ve had in a very, very long time.
“You said you have another five days?” Austin asks, taking a step closer. Close enough I have to tip my head back to see his eyes.
“Y-yes.”
His smile warms me down to my toes. “I don’t have anywhere else to be just now. Losing myself on the Maya Trail, remember? The best part of getting lost? No one can find you—unless you want them to. I like San Cristóbal de las Casas. I think I’ll stay a few more days. Maybe…five more?”
“Oh. Oh.” The butterflies in my stomach are starting to drive themselves into a frenzy. “I work all day. We leave before sunrise, and I don’t know what time we’ll be done. It all depends on the weather. It’s been so wet lately, hiking up the trail to the grow sites takes twice as long as it should. We might not get back here until after dark—“
“Mikayla?” Austin squeezes my hand, and I snap my jaw shut. Anything to stop myself from rambling on and on and on… Oh, crap. He said my name. And I’m just standing here like an idiot. “Back with me?” he asks.
“Um…sorry. I spend a lot of time in my own head. Like, I have whole conversations with myself in there. Long ones. Kind of a risk of the job.” I don’t know how I manage to say all of that without tripping over my own words, but I don’t care at the moment, because all that’s good in this world can’t hold a candle to Austin’s smile.
“I’m staying in Room 236. When you get back, no matter what time it is, give me a call. Or come and knock. We can at least have a drink together.”
“I’d…I’d like that.” Shock at my admission settles the butterflies—or maybe it just kills them—and I smile. “Um, I should go. Get some sleep.” I don’t want to release his hand, but if I stay here any longer, I’m going to make a fool out of myself, so I pull away, but then his room number registers somewhere in the back of my head, and I stop. “You said Room 236?”
“Yes.”
It’s a good thing the lighting in this bar is so dim. Otherwise he’d see how mortified I am. “I’m in 234.” There goes any chance of making a graceful exit.
His hazel eyes take on a brilliant sparkle, and he shoves his hand into his pocket, then offers me his elbow. “Then may I walk you to your room, Mikayla?”
I can’t do anything but nod and tuck my hand in the crook of his arm. The hotel isn’t large, and it doesn’t take more than five minutes to reach our rooms, but I spend every second wondering what’s going to happen when we get there. I want him to kiss me, but I never kiss on the first date, and was this even a date? We ate dinner next to one another. Not with one another.
Austin waits until I have my key in hand and turn, staring up at him. “Well, this is me.”
Stupid, Mik. Of course this is your room. It’s literally right next to his.
“Sleep well, Mikayla,” he says, his voice rough and his eyes dark. “I haven’t had a night this…perfect in a long time.”
Perfect? It was just…dinner. And a beer. And hours of conversation.
Except, despite my inner voice trying to convince me otherwise, he’s right. Everything about this evening was perfect. Casual. Easy. Fun.
“I’d like to ask you something.” He skims a knuckle along my bangs, and the intimacy of the touch makes me want more, so I nod. “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
Strong fingers cup my neck, but he doesn’t touch me beyond that. Simply leans down and presses his lips to mine. His stubble sends shivers through me, and I brace my hand on the wall so my knees don’t buckle. It’s a chaste kiss by any standards, as is the second. And the third. But still, there’s something very intimate, very possessive, and very raw flowing between us, and I don’t want it to end.
But it has to. And does, when Isaiah and Corey stumble around the corner, talking too loudly, clearly inebriated, and I jump back before they see us with our lips locked together.
“Good night, Mik,” Austin says quietly as he backs away. Right before he disappears inside his room, he stops and pierces me with an intense stare. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As soon as I lock my own door, I rest my back against the wall we share, unable to wipe the goofy grin from my lips. “Good night, Austin.”
Between the after effects of my meds and the intensity of those kisses, I’m still wired and a little shaky two hours later. I caught up on all of my data entry, wrote up the experiments for the next day, and…yes…Googled Major General Austin Pritchard.
He’s exactly who he said he was. And a hell of a lot more. The man has a Wikipedia page, complete with a photo of him in full dress uniform. And crap on a cracker, does he clean up nicely.
Commander, Joint Special Operations Command
I don’t know what that is, but it sounds impressive. Another ninety minutes pass, and I have to shut my laptop and try for at least a couple of hours of sleep. When I close my eyes, though, visions of Austin doing all sorts of heroic things play in a loop in my head.
Though my parents were right in the middle of the fighting in Syria in the seventies, they came to the United States as refugees with my grandmother before I was born, so I was spared all those painful memories. All I know about war is what I see on the news. But Austin…he’s lived it.
Is that why he wanted to disappear for a while? So many questions run through my mind, and I stare up at the hotel ceiling until my lids are too heavy to keep open any longer.
Stifling a yawn as I adjust the microscope, I wish I’d moved just a little faster this morning. A second cup of hotel coffee would have been really nice. Instead, I have to make do with instant. Li and Corey are at Grow Site Five, and Isaiah works at the table across from me, cataloging the photos he took yesterday.
“Leaf rot on the ferns surrounding Site One’s grow zone,” he mutters to himself. “Heavy concentration of spider mites in the area, but I don’t see any on the orchids…”
“What did you say?” I stumble as I slide off my stool, spilling my coffee all over the work bench. “Crap. Get some paper towels!”
Panicking, I reach for the slide tray, but grab it awkwardly, snapping one of the thin pieces of glass in half with my thumb. A drop of my blood stains the shard, and my heart shoots into my chest. If that was one of the dried pieces of orchid root…I could be in trouble.
“Dr. Mik?” Isaiah’s next to me in three steps, staring down at the blood. “Shit. What was on that slide?”
“I…what number is it?”
Breathe. There are a hundred slides in that tray. Only ten of them are potentially poisonous.
With a pair of tweezers, he gingerly pulls out the broken glass. “Fifty-three.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Staggering over to the sink, I turn the water on full blast and hold my hand under the spray, squeezing the fleshy pad of my thumb to help flush out any mold spores from the razor thin piece of fern that had been preserved under glass on slide fifty-three. “Totally harmless. The orchid roots were on slides one through ten.”
“Thank God.” Isaiah mops up the spilled coffee while I wash my hands thoroughly and then wrap a bandage around my thumb.
That was a stupid mistake. Amateur. One that would have earned any of the grad students a stern lecture had they been in my shoes.
That’s it. No more coffee in the lab. But after being up half the night thinking about Austin, I was wiped. As he tosses the soaked towels in the trash, Isaiah says, “The spider mites leave the orchids alone. That’s what I was saying. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the plants were being sprayed, but we’re the only ones up here.”
“The Mexican Ecological Foundation assured us that they’d leave all five grow sites alone for at least three weeks before we arrived. They wouldn’t even set foot in them, just have their security patrols make sure no poachers entered the area. Show me the images?”
He projects them onto the largest monitor we have. The first day, we did nothing but tour the five sites, and I pull up those pictures for comparison. “That’s really weird. You can see evidence of spider mites on the photos we took weeks ago. There’s no reason for them to not be there now.”
“Li and Corey won’t have time to visit Site One today,” Isaiah says. “But we should go tomorrow and take fresh samples. Then we can check for pesticide. I wish I’d noticed this when I was up there yesterday. The rain was intense, and it took all of my focus to keep the camera dry.”
“If someone is spraying up there, half our data will be useless.” The idea that we’ve wasted the majority of our time in Mexico leaves a sour taste in my mouth, and now I don’t want more coffee. I just want answers.
Isaiah radios Li and tells her to swab at least twenty-five percent of the plants at Site Five and bring back cuttings from another ten percent. Even with the walkie-talkies, communication halfway up the mountain is spotty, and she asks why, but when he tries to explain, there’s nothing but static on the other end of the connection.
“I need some air,” I say as I cover the ninety-nine remaining slides and put the tray in one of the lab fridges. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Okay, Dr. Mik. You’re not going far, right?” Concern crinkles around his dark brown eyes. Of my three graduate students, he’s the most empathetic, and every time I have an asthma attack, I swear he gets more overprotective.
“Just down to the river. And I have my radio and my rescue inhaler.” I show him the tube, then shove it into the pocket of my khaki pants and pull my windbreaker over my head. It’s not as wet today, but the weather can change on a dime this time of year.
“Be careful. It’s still slick out there,” he says as he returns to his work. I can tell he doesn’t want me to go, but tough. I’m the one in charge here. And I’m fine. Except for making a stupid, rookie mistake that could have left me in need of medical attention.
The phytotoxin produced by drying the Blushing Note’s roots is so powerful, I haven’t let any of the students even touch the slices I cured last week. And yet, I’m the one who almost stabbed myself with one of them.
My own petulance leaves a sour taste in my mouth as I stalk out of the trailer. This is my dream. Has been ever since I interned with Dr. Brian Branch while I was working on my dissertation. He knew about the orchid, and when he told me about its potential therapeutic properties, saving it became my mission. I’ve applied for this grant three years in a row, and now, if our research is compromised, I’ll lose all credibility in the academic community, but the real tragedy will be the loss of a chance for a real, legitimate treatment for Parkinson’s.
“An endangered orchid?” I almost choke on my beer, but Mikayla’s completely serious, and bright streaks of copper shine in her eyes as she narrows them at me.
“Yes. An orchid.” With a huff, she reaches for her napkin and unfolds it across her lap. “What’s so unbelievable about that?”
“Nothing.” Holding up a hand, I duck my head so I can meet her gaze. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been around people in a while. I guess I forgot how to be—“
“Not a jerk?” Mikayla asks.
“Something like that.” I go for another sip of beer, then stop with the bottle halfway to my mouth. Alcohol won’t stop me from chewing on my boot again, and it’s been a long time since I actually wanted to talk to someone. “Can we start over?”
The bartender returns with two plates of tacos and slides one in front of each of us. “Anything else?” he asks, and Mikayla eyes my beer.
“Any good?” At my nod, she adds, “Then I’ll have what he’s having. Also another bottle of water, please.”
As soon as the guy turns away, she holds out her hand again. “Dr. Mikayla Salim. But most people call me Mik.”
“Major General Austin Pritchard. United States Air Force.” The formal introduction rolls off my tongue like it’s second nature, and it is. Except that’s not who I am anymore. Flames crawl up my neck to my cheeks, and I quickly add, “Retired.”
Mikayla’s brows shoot up, and she gives me a short whistle. Her fingers are warm, and I don’t want to let go, this sudden, unexpected wave of intense connection barreling through me so hard and fast, I worry it’s going to knock me off my stool. “And I thought doctor was an impressive title.”
“Well, I never got further than a couple of master’s degrees, so…” It feels good to smile. Like I’m reclaiming a piece of myself I lost long ago. “Doctor sounds pretty damn impressive to me.”
“So what are you doing in San Cristóbal de las Casas, Major General Austin Pritchard?” Mikayla settles a little more solidly onto her stool, and the wiggle of her ass draws my gaze for a split second.
Eyes up, Pritchard. I focus on my plate as I answer. “Just Austin. I retired a little over a month ago. Needed a break. Losing myself on the Maya Trail for a while sounded like a good idea.”
After a generous bite of a taco, she studies me, those wide brown eyes taking in every detail. “Sounded?”
I chuckle. “Picked up on that, huh?”
“Maybe.”
Her smile makes me want to tell her everything. Just start talking and not stop, but that’s probably because I haven’t spoken more than a few words to anyone in since I left the United States.
“Well, turns out, spending six weeks alone with only your thoughts for company isn’t the best idea when those thoughts are pretty damn insistent that you relive all the mistakes you’ve ever made in your life.”
I wash the bitter admission down with a swig of beer, shocked at how easy it is to share my failings with someone I don’t know. Dani tried to get me to go to therapy when I was sent home from Pakistan. Said it helped her—and Trevor. Maybe I should have listened.
“Oof. Well, I don’t drink very often,” Mik says as she lifts her bottle and tips it towards mine, “but I’ve found when I do, my inner voice tends to take a hike.”
“Shit. That’s what got me into this mess.” When Mik’s brow furrows, I snort. “Taking a hike?”
“Oh, crap.” She lowers her eyes to her beer, then bursts out laughing. It’s the sweetest sound, full of abandon, and I finally pick up my bottle and touch the neck to hers.
“To hiking?” I ask.
“No. No, no, no.” She shakes her head, and her bronzed cheeks take on the hue of a summer sunset. “To a meal with a stranger who’ll hopefully forgive me for making a complete fool of myself.”
“Nothing to forgive, Mikayla. Mik. This is the best meal I’ve had since I arrived in Mexico.”
Her blush deepens, and fuck. I wish this didn’t have to end with dinner. But it does, because no one deserves to see my damage in the light of day. For the next hour though, I plan on enjoying every minute of my time with the gorgeous Dr. Mikayla Salim. Because why the hell not?
Chapter Six
Mikayla
The four-hour nap I took after Corey brought me back to the hotel was amazing—and desperately needed—but it doesn’t bode well for being able to sleep tonight. Which is why I’m still sitting in the hotel bar long after midnight chatting with this handsome, retired Air Force officer.
Austin’s short, dark hair narrows to a widow’s peak, and every once in a while, the light catches a strand of gray. He wears two or three days’ worth of stubble along his jaw, and I think his hazel eyes have seen too much. Tattoos cover his right arm from his wrist to his elbow, with words I haven’t yet been able to read. They’re not in English, that much I know. But languages were never my strong suit. Beyond Latin.
“Mikayla?” Austin leans a little closer. “Did you hear me?”
I fiddle with my napkin, fighting the embarrassment racing up my neck to my cheeks. “Sorry. I was trying to figure out what those words mean,” I say, gesturing to the ink.
A mix of pride and sadness plays across his features. “Loosely translated, they say, ‘We won’t give up, weren’t born for that. We’ll throw ourselves into the battle for honor.’”
“That’s beautiful.”
Silence stretches between us, and I stifle a yawn.
“I’m keeping you up,” Austin says as he finishes off his tequila. “You probably have an early wake-up call.”
Offering him a sheepish smile, I nod and polish off the last sip of my beer. I don’t normally drink, but after an attack, the meds often leave me so wired, a beer is about the only thing that lets me fall asleep. “We have another five days to finish up our research, and I put us behind. After my asthma attack, one of my grad students had to take two hours out of his day to drive me back here, plus, they had to do my share of the work today.”
“You couldn’t exactly help it,” Austin says, and when I meet his gaze, I find understanding, sympathy, and a hint of encouragement.
“No, but I’ll have to make up for it tomorrow.” Reaching into my cross-body purse for my cash, I pull out four hundred pesos and drop them on the table. Hours ago, when the restaurant started to empty, we found a corner booth where most of the noise faded away and it was just the two of us, talking about…nothing really. Casual conversation. Movies. Books. Music. “My treat,” I say when Austin frowns and reaches for his wallet.
“You can’t really expect me to let you pay?” He straightens, his broad shoulders stretching the black t-shirt across his chest. “Dr. Salim, where I’m from—“
“Mik. Or Mikayla, remember?” I brush my fingers over his wrist, and he stares down at the contact, where the heat of him seems to burn my skin. I’m not usually so brazen. No. Scratch that. I’m never this brazen.
When he looks up, the storm of emotion in his eyes shocks me.
Pulling away, mortified, I stammer, “S-sorry. I…I’m tired, and I wasn’t thinking.”
“Am I’m supposed to be angry? That was…nice.” Austin catches my hand in his, holding on as he stands and helps me to my feet. “When I came to the bar tonight, I was in a shitty mood, and my entire goal was to drink myself out of it. Or at least, drink enough I could forget about…a lot of things. Instead, I traded what would have been half a bottle of tequila for conversation with a smart, beautiful, and fascinating woman I really want to see again.”
I don’t know what to say to him, and the silence doesn’t do anything for my nerves. Because I want to see him again too. If only we weren’t two strangers in a tiny hotel in the Mexican highlands. There’s zero chance this will be anything more than what it’s been. One of the best evenings I’ve had in a very, very long time.
“You said you have another five days?” Austin asks, taking a step closer. Close enough I have to tip my head back to see his eyes.
“Y-yes.”
His smile warms me down to my toes. “I don’t have anywhere else to be just now. Losing myself on the Maya Trail, remember? The best part of getting lost? No one can find you—unless you want them to. I like San Cristóbal de las Casas. I think I’ll stay a few more days. Maybe…five more?”
“Oh. Oh.” The butterflies in my stomach are starting to drive themselves into a frenzy. “I work all day. We leave before sunrise, and I don’t know what time we’ll be done. It all depends on the weather. It’s been so wet lately, hiking up the trail to the grow sites takes twice as long as it should. We might not get back here until after dark—“
“Mikayla?” Austin squeezes my hand, and I snap my jaw shut. Anything to stop myself from rambling on and on and on… Oh, crap. He said my name. And I’m just standing here like an idiot. “Back with me?” he asks.
“Um…sorry. I spend a lot of time in my own head. Like, I have whole conversations with myself in there. Long ones. Kind of a risk of the job.” I don’t know how I manage to say all of that without tripping over my own words, but I don’t care at the moment, because all that’s good in this world can’t hold a candle to Austin’s smile.
“I’m staying in Room 236. When you get back, no matter what time it is, give me a call. Or come and knock. We can at least have a drink together.”
“I’d…I’d like that.” Shock at my admission settles the butterflies—or maybe it just kills them—and I smile. “Um, I should go. Get some sleep.” I don’t want to release his hand, but if I stay here any longer, I’m going to make a fool out of myself, so I pull away, but then his room number registers somewhere in the back of my head, and I stop. “You said Room 236?”
“Yes.”
It’s a good thing the lighting in this bar is so dim. Otherwise he’d see how mortified I am. “I’m in 234.” There goes any chance of making a graceful exit.
His hazel eyes take on a brilliant sparkle, and he shoves his hand into his pocket, then offers me his elbow. “Then may I walk you to your room, Mikayla?”
I can’t do anything but nod and tuck my hand in the crook of his arm. The hotel isn’t large, and it doesn’t take more than five minutes to reach our rooms, but I spend every second wondering what’s going to happen when we get there. I want him to kiss me, but I never kiss on the first date, and was this even a date? We ate dinner next to one another. Not with one another.
Austin waits until I have my key in hand and turn, staring up at him. “Well, this is me.”
Stupid, Mik. Of course this is your room. It’s literally right next to his.
“Sleep well, Mikayla,” he says, his voice rough and his eyes dark. “I haven’t had a night this…perfect in a long time.”
Perfect? It was just…dinner. And a beer. And hours of conversation.
Except, despite my inner voice trying to convince me otherwise, he’s right. Everything about this evening was perfect. Casual. Easy. Fun.
“I’d like to ask you something.” He skims a knuckle along my bangs, and the intimacy of the touch makes me want more, so I nod. “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
Strong fingers cup my neck, but he doesn’t touch me beyond that. Simply leans down and presses his lips to mine. His stubble sends shivers through me, and I brace my hand on the wall so my knees don’t buckle. It’s a chaste kiss by any standards, as is the second. And the third. But still, there’s something very intimate, very possessive, and very raw flowing between us, and I don’t want it to end.
But it has to. And does, when Isaiah and Corey stumble around the corner, talking too loudly, clearly inebriated, and I jump back before they see us with our lips locked together.
“Good night, Mik,” Austin says quietly as he backs away. Right before he disappears inside his room, he stops and pierces me with an intense stare. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As soon as I lock my own door, I rest my back against the wall we share, unable to wipe the goofy grin from my lips. “Good night, Austin.”
Between the after effects of my meds and the intensity of those kisses, I’m still wired and a little shaky two hours later. I caught up on all of my data entry, wrote up the experiments for the next day, and…yes…Googled Major General Austin Pritchard.
He’s exactly who he said he was. And a hell of a lot more. The man has a Wikipedia page, complete with a photo of him in full dress uniform. And crap on a cracker, does he clean up nicely.
Commander, Joint Special Operations Command
I don’t know what that is, but it sounds impressive. Another ninety minutes pass, and I have to shut my laptop and try for at least a couple of hours of sleep. When I close my eyes, though, visions of Austin doing all sorts of heroic things play in a loop in my head.
Though my parents were right in the middle of the fighting in Syria in the seventies, they came to the United States as refugees with my grandmother before I was born, so I was spared all those painful memories. All I know about war is what I see on the news. But Austin…he’s lived it.
Is that why he wanted to disappear for a while? So many questions run through my mind, and I stare up at the hotel ceiling until my lids are too heavy to keep open any longer.
Stifling a yawn as I adjust the microscope, I wish I’d moved just a little faster this morning. A second cup of hotel coffee would have been really nice. Instead, I have to make do with instant. Li and Corey are at Grow Site Five, and Isaiah works at the table across from me, cataloging the photos he took yesterday.
“Leaf rot on the ferns surrounding Site One’s grow zone,” he mutters to himself. “Heavy concentration of spider mites in the area, but I don’t see any on the orchids…”
“What did you say?” I stumble as I slide off my stool, spilling my coffee all over the work bench. “Crap. Get some paper towels!”
Panicking, I reach for the slide tray, but grab it awkwardly, snapping one of the thin pieces of glass in half with my thumb. A drop of my blood stains the shard, and my heart shoots into my chest. If that was one of the dried pieces of orchid root…I could be in trouble.
“Dr. Mik?” Isaiah’s next to me in three steps, staring down at the blood. “Shit. What was on that slide?”
“I…what number is it?”
Breathe. There are a hundred slides in that tray. Only ten of them are potentially poisonous.
With a pair of tweezers, he gingerly pulls out the broken glass. “Fifty-three.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Staggering over to the sink, I turn the water on full blast and hold my hand under the spray, squeezing the fleshy pad of my thumb to help flush out any mold spores from the razor thin piece of fern that had been preserved under glass on slide fifty-three. “Totally harmless. The orchid roots were on slides one through ten.”
“Thank God.” Isaiah mops up the spilled coffee while I wash my hands thoroughly and then wrap a bandage around my thumb.
That was a stupid mistake. Amateur. One that would have earned any of the grad students a stern lecture had they been in my shoes.
That’s it. No more coffee in the lab. But after being up half the night thinking about Austin, I was wiped. As he tosses the soaked towels in the trash, Isaiah says, “The spider mites leave the orchids alone. That’s what I was saying. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the plants were being sprayed, but we’re the only ones up here.”
“The Mexican Ecological Foundation assured us that they’d leave all five grow sites alone for at least three weeks before we arrived. They wouldn’t even set foot in them, just have their security patrols make sure no poachers entered the area. Show me the images?”
He projects them onto the largest monitor we have. The first day, we did nothing but tour the five sites, and I pull up those pictures for comparison. “That’s really weird. You can see evidence of spider mites on the photos we took weeks ago. There’s no reason for them to not be there now.”
“Li and Corey won’t have time to visit Site One today,” Isaiah says. “But we should go tomorrow and take fresh samples. Then we can check for pesticide. I wish I’d noticed this when I was up there yesterday. The rain was intense, and it took all of my focus to keep the camera dry.”
“If someone is spraying up there, half our data will be useless.” The idea that we’ve wasted the majority of our time in Mexico leaves a sour taste in my mouth, and now I don’t want more coffee. I just want answers.
Isaiah radios Li and tells her to swab at least twenty-five percent of the plants at Site Five and bring back cuttings from another ten percent. Even with the walkie-talkies, communication halfway up the mountain is spotty, and she asks why, but when he tries to explain, there’s nothing but static on the other end of the connection.
“I need some air,” I say as I cover the ninety-nine remaining slides and put the tray in one of the lab fridges. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Okay, Dr. Mik. You’re not going far, right?” Concern crinkles around his dark brown eyes. Of my three graduate students, he’s the most empathetic, and every time I have an asthma attack, I swear he gets more overprotective.
“Just down to the river. And I have my radio and my rescue inhaler.” I show him the tube, then shove it into the pocket of my khaki pants and pull my windbreaker over my head. It’s not as wet today, but the weather can change on a dime this time of year.
“Be careful. It’s still slick out there,” he says as he returns to his work. I can tell he doesn’t want me to go, but tough. I’m the one in charge here. And I’m fine. Except for making a stupid, rookie mistake that could have left me in need of medical attention.
The phytotoxin produced by drying the Blushing Note’s roots is so powerful, I haven’t let any of the students even touch the slices I cured last week. And yet, I’m the one who almost stabbed myself with one of them.
My own petulance leaves a sour taste in my mouth as I stalk out of the trailer. This is my dream. Has been ever since I interned with Dr. Brian Branch while I was working on my dissertation. He knew about the orchid, and when he told me about its potential therapeutic properties, saving it became my mission. I’ve applied for this grant three years in a row, and now, if our research is compromised, I’ll lose all credibility in the academic community, but the real tragedy will be the loss of a chance for a real, legitimate treatment for Parkinson’s.
