Steamrolled by Pauline Baird Jones

feeling kind. When they weren’t they called her beanpole. And freaking weird. They weren’t wrong. Robert knew it, and his friends appeared to know it, too, but Robert didn’t seem to mind. He did look curious. Was it just the museum that made him curious? Was there a smidge of it in there for her? Since he stared at the museum, she had to conclude not.
    “That’s paint?” Ric not-Jones sounded and looked disbelieving.
    The effect was remarkable. One had a hard time not believing that the ceiling arched high overhead, like a real warehouse or that one walked across wooden planking. The lack of creaking gave it away, of course. It was hard to pick the real wood beams from the painted ones. Her mom’s elevator hadn’t always made it to her attic, but she could slap paint on any surface that wasn’t canvas. Well, she could slap it on canvas, but it almost made the eyes bleed to look at the result. Her non-brick work sucked, but Emily had seen photos of the outside murals. Of course, they were beyond boring—even to someone with steam in her veins—but beautifully done.
    Fyn didn’t say anything. Emily suspected that was his norm. Robert didn’t talk much either, but she had no idea if it was his norm. She sensed shy in there, and there was that heaping helping of geek, but he moved, she mulled it for a few seconds, like a panther. Smooth and dangerous. It didn’t mix well with shy, which made her even more curious. He was like a puzzle with some wrong pieces—one of those complicated ones that you had to be a genius to finish.
    She wasn’t a genius.
    All four of them stopped in the center of the workshop, looking around with an inappropriate-to-the-situation intensity. It’s not like Uncle E achieved fame or fortune with his scientific studies. His main claim to fame was disappearing with or without his comely assistant. And if he disappeared without Olivia, that made him sadder than his great-great-great niece. She paused to add up the greats, but still wasn’t sure how many there were supposed to be. Math wasn’t her strong suit. She liked geeks, but her science skills were mostly fictional, if one didn’t count the steampunk stuff. Mostly no one did.
    Carey moved into her sightline, momentarily blocking her view of Robert. How weird was it that any mention of Olivia bothered Carey? He’d gone from relaxed to defensive in about a second. He’d stopped in front of the newspaper article with her picture featured prominently. Looked a bit lovesick, now that she thought about it. But he couldn’t be. That would be as weird as, well, her.
    Robert gave up studying the ceiling and headed for Uncle E’s big, old desk, increasing her longing to lean on something and admire his tush. She’d always liked jeans on a guy. Maybe that’s why she stayed in Wyoming. Lots of denim. And when the denim was wrapped around smart and yummy? Oh my darling. Okay, so maybe she hadn’t gotten it out of her system yet.
    A smaller desk for the comely assistant sat close by Uncle E’s desk. Robert stopped, a brow rising. It was a bit original Spock, but still cute.
    “A laptop?”
    “Oh, sorry.” Emily felt heat sting her cheeks. “That’s mine.” She hurried around Olivia’s desk, and tucked it under an arm. Not even Eddie knew she worked on her book down here. She’d hoped a book about her uncle might boost the museum’s profile, but she had to figure out how to end it. So far nothing felt right. The best ending would be figuring out where Uncle E went, but her study of his life, his inventions, and the time period had netted no clues.
    Robert’s companions stayed in the center, staring up at the ceiling, looking a bit gob smacked, except Fyn who didn’t seem to do expressions.
    “It smells,” Carey gave her a crooked, apologetic smile, “old.”
    “My grandma got the beams that aren’t painted from Uncle E’s actual New York warehouse. I think she chose them because they did smell. She was a bit crazy.”