5. Winnie

5

WINNIE

I kissed the professor.

That was bad. Naughty, naughty, bad. In my defense?—

Okay, I had no defense. I’d been drunk on Paris, pleased to share it with someone for the day, and I’d gotten carried away.

Ugh . This was so me.

I’d been jumping without a parachute since puberty. Shiny coins were my passion. If it glittered and seemed the slightest bit dangerous, I wanted in.

Alistair was the ultimate shiny coin. He was my best friend’s boss, he was a makeover moment waiting to happen, and he was so far out of my league it was almost comical. Check, check, super check.

Okay, I wasn’t a complete jerk. I’d coerced him from his room out of genuine concern for his well-being. Staring at a damn computer screen all day, not eating well, or sleeping was no bueno . I was being paid to look after him in Paris, and it had been my duty to save him from death by Jammie Dodgers.

I’d just gone too far .

Truth time: I was attracted to the professor, and I’d shamelessly manufactured a kiss that should never have happened. But…I hadn’t thought he’d do it. And I one thousand and ten percent hadn’t known he could kiss like that. I mean…geesh.

That possessive hand on my shoulder, the rough scrape of his end-of-day scruff on my face, the slide of his lips. I twisted the sheets, turning from one side to the other, obsessing over that kiss and wishing there’d been fewer layers between us. Who knew the professor was a roguish, dominant hunk under a Clark Kent-esque disguise?

Christ, I’d seen him naked too. I knew the man was hung like a horse and that his body was sturdy and strong. There was no way I could keep my thoughts pure and G-rated now.

Later that night, I’d gripped my cock, imagining the professor peeling off his clothes and covering me like a warm blanket. I was an expert at conjuring porn-worthy fantasies, but I’d never been so hard or desperate for a happy ending.

I’d flung my duvet off, stroking myself in languid pulls and squeezing my base to keep from shooting prematurely when my brain spun a kaleidoscope of raunchy scenes, each more erotic than the last. The professor between my knees, his cock drooling precum on my inner thigh as he pushed his glasses on his nose, demanding that I show him my hole. The professor’s fingers stretching me open, his cock inside me. That was it.

I’d come like a rocket, white light and stars clouding my vision.

One cold shower and a stern talking-to later, I’d concluded that encouraging Alistair to step away from his desk and have fun was all well and good, but I could not under any circumstance offer myself as Exhibit A, B, or C for a good time.

I tapped on his door at eight a.m. on the dot the following morning, prepared for the inevitable post-kiss awkwardness. A housekeeper answered on the second knock with a polite, “ Bonjour !”

“Oh, bonjour . He’s gone?”

“ Oui .”

Shit . His computer was missing, but the stack of paperwork littered the table, and his jacket was draped neatly over one of the chairs.

I waved as I backed out of the room and headed for the elevators. I had a list of things to do and see, but I’d been hoping for a companion today.

I strode across the lobby and gave my room number to the friendly bald ma?tre d, Henri, manning the desk at the restaurant.

“Ah, my favorite American! Where would you like to sit this morning? I have zee window table, zee buffet table, and zee popular corner next to zee coffee.”

I smiled. “The window, sill vu play . How was that?”

Henri winced. “ Meh . Getting better, I think.”

I followed him through the maze of tables and slid into the booth. A server swooped in with coffee and a menu. I gave it a cursory glance, then scrolled through missed text messages and emails. I even checked my bank balance. Depressing.

I tossed my cell aside and cradled my cup as I scanned the dining room. The couple next to me had honeymoon-glazed goggles on, the family of four on my left were speaking German, and the businessmen opposite them were—the professor and Gerard, intently studying the laptop between them.

Whoa.

I watched them for a moment, gauging the mood. I’d expected the professor to be on edge and discombobulated, but he seemed perfectly cool and calm. If anything, Gerard was the one who looked out of sorts. Don’t get me wrong, he was still hot as fuck—like an updated French version of Indiana Jones. He had the aura of someone who was comfortable anywhere. I could picture him in the deserts of Egypt or in a library, knee-deep in thick leatherbound books.

But I wouldn’t have pictured him in a hotel restaurant, hanging on Alistair’s every word.

This was interesting.

Seeing them together made me think their relationship was more convoluted than Alistair had indicated, because it was obvious that Gerard was in awe of the professor. He fixed a razor-sharp gaze on Alistair and leaned into his space, engrossed in whatever he was saying. I had no doubt that if there were a way to funnel the contents of the professor’s brain directly to his, Gerard would have been all over it.

I abandoned my coffee and strode confidently toward their table, my eager-assistant smile locked firmly in place.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I mean, bonjour ! I see you’re already hard at work unveiling the secrets of the ancient world and the—” I stopped mid-sentence and pointed at the screen. “Is that gay porn?”

Alistair snorted. “No, and good morning, Winnie. This is a closeup of a recent finding of a Ramesside period ostracon.”

“I have no idea what that means, but my eyes do not deceive me. That’s…old-timey hanky-panky.” I squinted to get a better look at the crude drawing of a man in a loincloth bent at the waist as his lover entered him from behind, hands on hips.

Yeah, that was sex.

“You are correct, and that’s what makes this piece unusual,” Gerard commented with a friendly nod. “ Allo , we met yesterday. I’m Gerard.”

“Winnie,” I said coolly. Gerard was less dreamy now that I knew the shady side of his personal connection to the professor. “I remember. ”

“I must thank you for letting me know Dr. Creighton was in town. We’ve accomplished a great deal this morning.”

“Oh. Right. I don’t want to interrupt,” I lied.

“No, no, I have a train to catch, and I am running late.” Gerard scooted his chair away from the table, aiming an indulgent half smile at me as he unhooked his computer bag from his chair and gathered his belongings. He spoke to Alistair in French in a low tone, then switched to English again as he stood. “ Au revoir , Winnie. I shall be in touch, Al-ee.”

“Al-ee?” I arched a brow and flopped unceremoniously onto the seat Gerard vacated.

“Never call me that,” Alistair huffed imperiously.

“Why not? It’s a nice nickname.” I chuckled at his sharp glare. “My real name is Winston, but the only people who’ve ever called me that were teachers on the first day of school. I’ve always been Winnie. My sister is Jasmine…everyone calls her Jazz. What’s yours? And don’t tell me you didn’t have one growing up. Everyone does.”

“Lee. Don’t call me that either.”

“Yes, sir.” I saluted him and pointed at the computer. “So…ancient porn is your secret research. You saucy minx, you.”

Alistair barked a laugh. “You’re a cheeky bugger. No, it’s not a secret, but it is sensitive.”

“Because they’re gay?”

“Not only that. It’s timing. Gerard would like to discuss his findings at the conference later in the month.”

“And he wants you to do the work.”

Alistair shrugged nonchalantly. “Research is what I do.”

“It’s gotta be weird to look at ancient porn with your ex’s husband.”

“That was…different,” he agreed wryly.

“I don’t like it. So tacky. There must be someone else he could ask. ”

“Well, he could ask Colin. He’s a trained linguist and a historian too, but Gerard claims Colin is too busy at the moment and there’s no one else. Sticky subject or no, I am the expert.”

“Sticky subject? More like crusty object,” I snarked. “I bet that rock inspired a few nasty fantasies. Can you x-ray it for ancient jizz?”

“Don’t be crude. This drawing is roughly three thousand years old. The hieroglyphics have partially worn off, but Gerard’s team thinks they’ve found a missing shard related to this artwork, and there’s a bit of excitement about it.”

“Show me again.”

“Sorry, I can’t. You’re not part of the archeological society,” Alistair teased, signing his name on the bill.

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll enroll as soon as I get to my room. C’mon, one more time.”

He tapped the lid on his laptop and slowly opened it. “A quick peek.”

I rested my elbows on the table, staring at the screen. “His arms and torso are too long, and the schlong is too small. Also, I don’t think it’s possible or wise to turn your head to that degree. But he’s smiling.” I pointed at the figure’s smudged face, then at the symbols to the left. “What does that say?”

“Unknown for now.”

“Any ideas?” I asked, pausing to thank the server who’d tracked me to Alistair’s table and delivered a fresh cup of coffee.

“A name, a place, a year. Something that ties the men together.”

“Do you think one of them is the artist?”

Alistair gazed at the laptop thoughtfully. “No. The artist is less important than the subject matter, though. As you can imagine, we don’t come across many homoerotic artifacts. We’ll see the occasional painting of two men or two women kissing, but in the past, historians have claimed the subjects were merely close friends or possibly siblings. Not lovers. This is what you might call hard evidence.”

“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.

I set my cell facedown on the table and picked up my latte, processing this new information like a detective mulling over clues for a job no one had hired me to do.

Fact: these were three smart, highly respected men…who’d been involved in a love triangle. That should have spelled scandal, al l caps. Or at least, it should have made a headline or two. However, there was nothing tying Alistair to Colin romantically. Nothing at all.

That was…odd but telling. I had a strong feeling he hadn’t lost Colin because he’d forgotten birthdays and didn’t care about sex. He’d lost him because he’d put his career first.

That was sad.