Mummy Dearest - lanyon Josh - Страница 12

“Good, because among other things, the princess isn’t wrapped up in swaddling, and her remains are about a third the size of that monster. That mummy was vintage Universal Studios.”

I was reminded of the bogus inscription on the princess’s sarcophagus. Coincidence? It had to be, right?

“I know. That was my thought too.” Fraser seemed remarkably cheerful about the whole incident. I, on the other hand, still felt seriously creeped out. How long had that weirdo been watching us? “I’m guessing our segment on the princess is pretty big news around here. Someone was probably trying to get in on the act.”

“Except this isn’t your room. It’s mine.”

He considered that. “Well, then someone probably heard you’re doing an article on the princess and same deal.”

“But what’s the point?”

“The point?”

“How can someone ‘get in on the act’ of an article in Archeology magazine?”

“I don’t know. What’s your theory?”

“I don’t have a theory.” I began buttoning my shirt again. “I just think it’s weird.”

He chuckled. “You think that was weird?” His face fell as he registered what I was doing. “You’re getting dressed?”

I nodded.

He hazarded, “You’re upset about what happened?”

I tucked my shirt inside my jeans. “You could say that.”

“Which part are you upset about? The BJ or the mummy watching me blow you?”

I groaned and put my hands over my face. “God. Don’t.”

“Well, jeez.” Fraser sounded astonished. “What are you getting so worked up about? You think the mummy’s going to go tell your boyfriend?”

I lowered my hands. “Could you just not say anything else?”

“All night?”

“All…night?” I stared at him blankly.

“We’re still going to dinner, aren’t we?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?” He looked so disappointed, I felt guilty. More guilty than I already felt, which was not a bad trick.

“Because…well, because.”

“Because you had a fight with your boyfriend and you let me—”

I put a hand up and he stopped. “Could you not keep saying that? Anyway, we didn’t have a fight.”

“Oh.”

My stomach suddenly growled so loudly that I half-expected to see an alien poke its head out of my belly.

Fraser gave a short laugh. “Well, if he gets a vote, he wants dinner. So do I. I’m starving. Let’s grab something to eat and you can tell me why you were looking shell-shocked when I walked out of the elevator.”

I opened my mouth to tell him…whatever I was going to say, offer an excuse as to why, despite the fact that I’d let him suck my cock, I couldn’t confide anything personal to him, but my stomach interjected again with such an outrageously rude rumble that we both started to laugh.

“I guess I do need to eat something,” I admitted. I heard the echo of that and blushed, but Fraser let it go.

“Great. Grab your jacket. I saw a steakhouse about half a block from the hotel. We could walk it, if you want. Talk.”

So that’s what we did. I grabbed my jacket and we walked over to the Carving Knife. We passed dimly lit shop windows decorated with paper goblins, piles of carved pumpkins and mannequins dressed as witches. Now and then we spotted kids dressed like cartoon characters or superheroes flitting across streets. No one went for gypsies or witches or ghosts anymore. It was all Harry Potter and Lady Gaga and the blue people from Avatar.

Fraser and I didn’t talk about anything more important than the weather—clear and cold—and the old-fashioned architecture, and the fact that Walsh seemed to be well on the road to becoming a ghost town.

The restaurant was busy but not packed, and we got a table right away. The waiter arrived to take our drink order.

Fraser ordered another Jack Daniels. I said, “I’ll just stick with the iced water.”

“Water?” Fraser asked after the waiter departed with our order.

“I don’t really have a head for alcohol,” I admitted.

“Are you an alcoholic?” He asked it in such a straightforward, understanding way, as though he really cared and would be willing to accept any confession, that the question wasn’t offensive.

“No. Nothing so interesting. I just have a really low threshold for alcohol. A couple of drinks and I’m dancing on tables.”

“That sounds promising.”

I laughed. “Slight exaggeration, but I’ve learned the hard way to go easy on the booze.” Especially because Noah had zero tolerance for the silliness alcohol brought out in me.

Noah.

It was like getting slammed from the side. What the hell was I doing? What the hell had I done?

My expression must have said it all because Fraser said, “Why don’t you tell me what did happen tonight?”

I didn’t have the energy to pretend I didn’t know what he meant. As much as Noah would loathe the idea that I sat here spilling my guts to a stranger—never mind everything else I’d spilled—I did need to talk. I felt like I hadn’t talked, really talked, to anyone in two years. Not since Noah and I got together.

“I think I broke up with my lover.”

“You think you broke up with him?”

“I broke up with him, but I don’t think he believes it.”

“Do you?” Fraser’s eyes were intent.

“I think…maybe I do.” Unexpectedly my eyes stung, and I had to reach for my water. I took a couple of sips.

“I’m sorry,” Fraser said. He sounded comfortingly sincere. “What happened?”

“You mean aside from the thing that happened in my hotel room?”

He snickered. “Sounds like a fifties B film. The Thing That Happened in My Hotel Room.”

I laughed too, but feebly. “The sequel to It Came from Outer Space.”

“No pun intended, right? Anyway, I get the feeling that wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t already broken it off with…what’s his name?”

“Noah.” My throat closed and I said huskily, “Dr. Noah Chadwick. I’ve been in love with him practically since I started teaching at Claremont McKenna College.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Four years.” Just like that I was telling Fraser everything. How much I’d admired Noah long before we ever met and how kind and supportive he’d been to a very junior professor and blah, blah, blah.

The waiter came with Fraser’s drink in time to stop his eyes from glazing over.

“Sure you won’t have something?” Fraser asked.

“Maybe a glass of wine with our meal.”

“Then I guess we better figure out what we’re eating.”

The waiter sighed. We looked hastily at the menus again. I was too hungry to be picky. I went for the porterhouse with mushrooms, a side of baked potato with the works, and grilled veggies. Fraser started by ordering an onion loaf. Then he went for the prime rib, rare, and added a lobster tail as an afterthought.

“Lobster in Wyoming? Brave man,” I observed.

“I am brave,” he assured me seriously.

He proved it by adding garlic mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and a dinner salad—with blue cheese crumbles.

The waiter and I were respectfully silent.

“You were going to order wine,” Fraser reminded me, handing his menu over at last. He didn’t say it as though I was scatterbrained and needed a keeper, but like he was attentive and looking out for my comfort.

“You know, I think I’ll have a cosmo after all.”

The waiter removed the menu from my hand before I could do further damage and retreated. Fraser took a hearty pull on Jack Daniels. “Wow. So your dream guy is a fifty-five-year-old anthropologist whose idea of a rip-roaring time is his mother’s garden party?”

“He looks like George Clooney.”

“Oh. Well, that does clarify things.”

“And that’s not fair about Mirabelle’s garden party. It’s an annual event, not something we do all the time.”

“I’m just teasing you.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. It was pretty attractive.

I started in again. I told him about the huge scandal of Lionel’s affair with his TA, and how I’d basically got Noah on the rebound, and how everyone said it wouldn’t last, and how afraid I was that Lionel wanted Noah back—and that Noah wanted Lionel too.