Read Online The Five-Day Dig by Jennifer Malin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Malin
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“ can i come by?”
The promise of new details about the project interested her, but seeing him this late at night didn’t seem appropriate. His comment in the car about coming to her room popped into her mind. Did he remember it? Doubtful. It hadn’t meant anything to him.
She glanced at the digital alarm clock on the night table: 23:30 – almost midnight. Shaking her head to herself, she typed, “can u wait till morning?”
“ rather not. excited .”
A laugh slipped out of her. “ u always r,” she wrote.
His answer came back a minute later: “u don’t want 2 douse my enthusiasm?”
That possibility didn’t worry her, but she did feel another tug of curiosity. She was still dressed and didn’t feel tired. Giving in, she wrote, “ok, 4 a few minutes.”
“ cool . tvb .”
The abbreviation drew a blank, but before she had time to question him about it, a knock sounded at the door. She got up, checked the peephole, and opened the door for him.
“What does ‘TVB’ stand for?” she asked.
He grinned at her. “ Ti voglio bene . I picked up the abbreviation from the locals.”
“That’s how they sign off from texting?” She stepped back to let him inside. “I thought it meant, ‘I love you’ – roughly.”
“Roughly, it can, but translated more literally, it’s ‘I wish you well.’ I figured, being language-oriented, you’d translate it literally.”
He understood how her mind worked, she thought, impressed and flattered. “If I’d thought about it, I would have, assuming I knew what the initials stood for.”
“Now you do. Of course, the Italians do express affection more freely than we Anglos. They also close texts and e-mails with un abraccio or un bacio . Would you rather I do that?”
A hug or a kiss ? She shot him a wry look but didn’t dare hold his gaze. “Didn’t we cover this earlier?”
“We didn’t exhaust the subject.”
“We’re not going to.”
He glanced around the small room, furnished with only a double bed, a dresser and a nightstand. His gaze came to rest on the burning candle. “I like the mood lighting.”
His flirting seemed to have stepped up a notch. Was there some way she was encouraging him? Pheromones? Letting him in her room at midnight? Foolish mistake.
She walked over to the lamp and turned it all the way up. “Why did you tell Dr. Farber about ‘The Five-Day Dig’ when I asked you not to?”
His eyes widened. “I thought he knew. I didn’t run into him until half-eight. I was sure by then you would have told him.”
She had to admit that any reasonable person would have told him by then. “OK. I can understand that.” Sitting down on the bed near her pillow, she asked, “So, what’s the scoop that brings you here?”
He took a seat at the foot of the mattress – a position she noted with heightened awareness. “Enza and I ran into Dunk Mortill at the wine bar. Being acquainted with him personally is brilliant.”
“Even when he steals your date?”
He gave her a mischievous look. “I suppose you were right when you said I wouldn’t get anywhere with Italian girls.”
Repeated to her, the words sounded horrendous. “Did I really say that?”
“I knew you were just jealous.”
She looked away. In retrospect, the comment did sound like jealousy. How mortifying. Scrambling to make light of it, she could only manage a grimace, no retort.
He picked up the book she’d been reading and studied the cover. “Dunk filled us in about the grocery list and the triticum purpurea .”
“So he told you I translated the recipe.” To distract herself, she picked up her phone and checked text messages. None in the last two minutes. No surprise there. “What else did you find out?”
“One of the local punters says he has this purple wheat growing wild on his land. Dunk is getting some tomorrow so he can brew the recipe. We’ll have the beer in time for shooting.”
She snorted. “Well, I guess if we have to do
The promise of new details about the project interested her, but seeing him this late at night didn’t seem appropriate. His comment in the car about coming to her room popped into her mind. Did he remember it? Doubtful. It hadn’t meant anything to him.
She glanced at the digital alarm clock on the night table: 23:30 – almost midnight. Shaking her head to herself, she typed, “can u wait till morning?”
“ rather not. excited .”
A laugh slipped out of her. “ u always r,” she wrote.
His answer came back a minute later: “u don’t want 2 douse my enthusiasm?”
That possibility didn’t worry her, but she did feel another tug of curiosity. She was still dressed and didn’t feel tired. Giving in, she wrote, “ok, 4 a few minutes.”
“ cool . tvb .”
The abbreviation drew a blank, but before she had time to question him about it, a knock sounded at the door. She got up, checked the peephole, and opened the door for him.
“What does ‘TVB’ stand for?” she asked.
He grinned at her. “ Ti voglio bene . I picked up the abbreviation from the locals.”
“That’s how they sign off from texting?” She stepped back to let him inside. “I thought it meant, ‘I love you’ – roughly.”
“Roughly, it can, but translated more literally, it’s ‘I wish you well.’ I figured, being language-oriented, you’d translate it literally.”
He understood how her mind worked, she thought, impressed and flattered. “If I’d thought about it, I would have, assuming I knew what the initials stood for.”
“Now you do. Of course, the Italians do express affection more freely than we Anglos. They also close texts and e-mails with un abraccio or un bacio . Would you rather I do that?”
A hug or a kiss ? She shot him a wry look but didn’t dare hold his gaze. “Didn’t we cover this earlier?”
“We didn’t exhaust the subject.”
“We’re not going to.”
He glanced around the small room, furnished with only a double bed, a dresser and a nightstand. His gaze came to rest on the burning candle. “I like the mood lighting.”
His flirting seemed to have stepped up a notch. Was there some way she was encouraging him? Pheromones? Letting him in her room at midnight? Foolish mistake.
She walked over to the lamp and turned it all the way up. “Why did you tell Dr. Farber about ‘The Five-Day Dig’ when I asked you not to?”
His eyes widened. “I thought he knew. I didn’t run into him until half-eight. I was sure by then you would have told him.”
She had to admit that any reasonable person would have told him by then. “OK. I can understand that.” Sitting down on the bed near her pillow, she asked, “So, what’s the scoop that brings you here?”
He took a seat at the foot of the mattress – a position she noted with heightened awareness. “Enza and I ran into Dunk Mortill at the wine bar. Being acquainted with him personally is brilliant.”
“Even when he steals your date?”
He gave her a mischievous look. “I suppose you were right when you said I wouldn’t get anywhere with Italian girls.”
Repeated to her, the words sounded horrendous. “Did I really say that?”
“I knew you were just jealous.”
She looked away. In retrospect, the comment did sound like jealousy. How mortifying. Scrambling to make light of it, she could only manage a grimace, no retort.
He picked up the book she’d been reading and studied the cover. “Dunk filled us in about the grocery list and the triticum purpurea .”
“So he told you I translated the recipe.” To distract herself, she picked up her phone and checked text messages. None in the last two minutes. No surprise there. “What else did you find out?”
“One of the local punters says he has this purple wheat growing wild on his land. Dunk is getting some tomorrow so he can brew the recipe. We’ll have the beer in time for shooting.”
She snorted. “Well, I guess if we have to do
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