The Explorers Part 1 | A Romantic Short Story
Tempers flare on a journey to find a mysterious text for a driven professor aiming to protect history and an overzealous archaeologist with uncertain alliances. A LVNDR Romantic Short Story. 18+
The Professor’s eyes didn’t stray from her map as the Archaeologist hovered over her.
She had seen him approach, one hand tucked into his linen suit while the other held a rocks glass filled to the brim with brown liquor, but her own drink — a strong coffee — hadn’t been able to fight the travel day exhaustion let alone a conversation with him.
Despite the many available seats in the hotel’s lounge, the Archaeologist lingered for an uncomfortable few seconds. The Professor looked up to meet his gaze with a heavy sigh.
She wasn’t always this rude, but the overnight flight had been rough and she’d need to make the most of every second if she were to acquire what she came for in the mere forty-eight hours she was allowed. This particular hour was devoted to caffeinating and finding a driver willing to take her to the middle of the desert. There simply weren’t enough seconds in the day to make small talk with her professional rival.
The Archaeologist, however, seemed in no such rush as he sat down on the rust colored velvet sofa beside the Professor, despite the easy translation of her body language telling him to do anything but.
“Henry,” he offered. His grin was still visible through the rim of his glass as he took a sip.
There was an uncomfortable pause before the Professor offered a sharp nod before returning to her map, hoping her eye movements were discreet enough to avoid him from knowing where she was going.
“This is where you respond, ‘I’m Margaret’.”
The Professor — Margaret — ground her teeth. They both knew that the other needed no introduction. They’d run in the same academic circles for years. Chasing the same artifacts. Fighting over the same lecture positions. They could send men 5,000 miles into the sky, but somehow having a woman lead a talk at a scientific conference was too progressive, so he’d almost always won them over her.
Logic quickly replaced the sharp twinge of surprise that rang through her. It wasn’t surprising to see him there. Egypt held a great deal of information for someone in his field. The chance of him being there for the same thing Margaret next to zero. While expeditions like these typically started in large libraries and classrooms, this one was initiated by a note tucked underneath her office door a week ago that she’d only trusted out of desperation to find the one object she knew it was referencing.
The Lost Library. Cairo. June 12.
“You’re quite the proponent for repatriation.”
Henry filled the silence as if hot air were a limited resource. Margaret tilted her refined, light frustration into something more confrontational. Despite his words being laced with liquor, she knew that the Archaeologist was more in control than he let on.
“And I’m good at it.” Margaret intentionally sharpened her gaze on Henry’s gold-rimmed glasses. “Which I’m sure you already know since I’ve argued — and won — many cases against your work directly.”
“Smart and spirited,” Henry laughed, crossing a leg over his knee. Making himself comfortable, Margaret realized to her chagrin. “Museums aren’t all bad, you know.”
“I know,” she agreed, returning her attention to the map. Letting her finger tips dance across the page as if to really sell how limited on time she was. “Yet you always seem to choose the most unethical ones to work with.”
“I’m here researching my next book, actually.” Just when she’d returned her attention to where it needed to be, Henry broke through it. “Mysterious Texts of Ancient Egypt.”
The Professor’s head spun. Both figuratively and literally, Margaret realized as they locked eyes again.
She simply nodded before scanning the room, her allotted time to find a driver almost up. They typically loitered just outside the open-air lobby for tourists in desperate need to get to their next location. She simply needed to find the one most likely to take her five hours into the desert without asking too many questions.
Collecting herself, Margaret folded the map, drained the coffee, and stood up. Henry sat back to meet her glare from where she now looked down on him. “It was nice to meet you, but I have a lot of wor—.”
“I’m going to The Lost Library,” he interrupted, grabbing his glass and draining his whiskey. “And, based on your expertise, the spot on the map you keep subconsciously tapping, and your hostile nature that I wouldn’t dare to assume is your natural state… I’d say you are, too.”
The blood in Margaret’s veins froze as Henry pulled a folded slice of paper from his pocket. The parchment was cut from the same unique rose-colored cloth as the one in her bag upstairs. The Professor could assume that the instructions on it were the same, as well.
“It’s a myth,” Margaret said more to herself than to the Archaeologist. “I’m only here to dispel it.”
“Well, I’m here to prove it,” Henry countered, crossing his arms but raising the folded message in between two fingers.
Margaret desperately needed to be alone to sort through her thoughts before she lashed out from pure overstimulation. “If I had known someone else was tasked with doing the dirty work, I would’ve gladly stayed at home.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” Henry licked his lips, dry from the desert wind. “Besides, knowing that you’d be here is the whole reason I came in the first place. I’d like to partner with you on this.”
“I think the heat’s made you delusional.” Margaret couldn’t contain the harsh laugh that escaped her. It seemed to take Henry aback by the way his eyebrows raised. Not in alarm so much as amusement. “I won’t help you find kindling for their fires.”
They both knew that she was referring to the museums. They were always the first to scrounge up any remnants of an artifact, whether it was theirs to take or not. Digging up culture simply to put it on some display they could profit from.
“As much as I’d like to blame the heat, I’ve been waiting for you all morning.” Henry stood up, close enough now for Margaret to need to tilt her chin up to face him. “I’m here to ensure that the guys chasing it for the museum never find this particular item, and know you’re the best at doing just that.”
A chill ran down Margaret’s spine, unsure why he’d be working against the museum. What could make this item so special that he’d forgo his allegiance. Before she could respond, the Archaeologist’s gaze shifted behind her shoulder.
“Ah, there they are now.”
She turned slowly to find three men in sharp linen suits making their way through the lobby. Seemingly hunting down the most willing driver, just as she had only a few minutes earlier.
“We could go on and on about how you think I’m a cad who can’t be trusted,” the Archaeologist had shifted away from the men, shadowing her as if to hide them both, “but I’m the cad with a car, and we need to leave now.”