She was cataloging poop. She was bent over a laptop entering in dates and categories and size and weight and even the consistency of each poop sample they had. If it hadn’t been so disgusting she would have thought it was interesting. As it was, she had a scented candle at her elbow and still had to bury her nose in her shirt every five minutes. It could be worse, she supposed, she could be the one who was actually touching it. She looked toward Jake for the millionth time with her nose wrinkled in revulsion. “I’m gonna throw up.” He chuckled, not looking up from the microscope and his current sample. “No, you’re not.” His voice glided up her spine and melted her insides along the way. “You get past the ick factor and it all comes down to the science of it.” God, she thought, the man was adorable even when he was talking about poop. There went those professor fantasies again. “Did you just say ick, Dr. Eagle Feather?” she teased, and Poncho snorted from his station on the other side of the table.
