Page 110 of Boiling Point
To Cal.
To my professor.
No. Not my professor. Not anymore. That was the line I kept repeating, the excuse I wore like a shield.
If we got married—and it was no longer an if, not really—the truth would have to come out. I’d have to tell Aunt Suzy, tell everyone, that I hadn’t just fallen for some charming Brit with an aristocratic surname. I’d fallen for my professor. I’d crossed the one line everyone agreed was uncrossable. Even if I transferred and started fresh with a new school and a new story, the damage was already done. The rules were clear, and I’d broken them. No revisionist history would change that.
And it would be a scandal. No matter how many times Cal said it would be fine, that my life wouldn’t be ruined. I could see the ripples already: Sloane Cartwright savoring the gossip, the story spreading from one group chat to the next, strangers acting like they knew me—like they were owed the details. I could already hear the whispers trailing me down hallways I’d never walk again—at least, not as a student.
The thought swept cold through my chest, harder than the wind rattling the windowpanes. I thought of the headlines that had chased Cal out of Oxford and across an ocean. I thought of my own shaky alibi—the half-lies I’d fed Aunt Suzy, the bland, forgettable name I gave her so she wouldn’t look too closely. A day would come—and soon—when the truth would crash through it all, shattering the neat compartments I’d built to keep my worlds apart.
In that moment, I didn’t know which was heavier—the secret or the love. I wondered if Cal’s family had reached the same conclusion. On the surface, they seemed to have accepted everything—the age gap, my Americanness, the certainty that I would never, no matter how hard I scrubbed, fit within the outline of their world. My family was considered well-off back home, but nothing compared to the Hawthornes.
There had been no awkward questions about how long we’d known each other, or when exactly the shift from student and professor to something more had occurred. Instead, they had welcomed me—politely, if not warmly. But who knew what they said behind closed doors?
I glanced at the clock.
Shoot!
I’d let forty minutes slip past, lost somewhere between the blue damask wallpaper and my own reverie. I slipped on a pair of ballet flats and checked my outfit in the mirror. Not my best work, but it would have to do.
I hated the sherry—this family’s preferred pre-luncheon ritual. But today, I might need it more than I’d ever admit.
Chapter 39
Callum
The library door sighed shut behind us, and the hush inside pressed close. Late morning light slanted through the east windows, striping the Persian rug in ochre and indigo.
James crossed to the drinks trolley, uncorked the decanter, and poured two fingers of whiskey—none for me. He made a show of the omission, as if it might sting. I leaned against the marble-topped sideboard, hands braced on its edge, and waited for the opening volley.
He offered none—simply swirled his drink.
“A bit early to be drowning your sorrows, isn’t it?” I said, finally breaking the silence.
James’s gaze sharpened behind the rim of his glass. “What would you know about sorrows?” His tone was a slow scalpel slide. “Or responsibility?” He set the glass down. “And you’re hardly in a position to lecture me on appropriate behavior.”
Heat prickled at my collarbone, but I kept my shoulders set, arms folded. “Well, go on then,” I said. “Let’s have it. A homecoming wouldn’t be complete without a sermon from my perfect older brother.”
He didn’t rise to my tone, only shifted his weight, slow and deliberate. “You know what I hate about the prodigal son story?” He let the question hang, daring me to mock it. “It was forced on us every Sunday, if you recall.”
“I do,” I said, wary. “I didn’t realize you were so fond of Sunday school parables.”
James ignored me. “The younger brother’s a wastrel. He fucks off, squanders their father’s money, ignores every expectation, and then—when he’s wrecked, when he’s bled the world dry—he stumbles home, and his father throws him a bloody feast.”
He tossed back the last of his whiskey, voice leveling out. James stared at the cut crystal glass, as if clarity might emerge from the play of refracted light.
“They drilled that story into us for years. But the punchline was always the same, wasn’t it?” He looked up, a tight smile curving at the edges of his mouth. “The elder son stays behind. Sacrifices. Holds the line for the family. And where does that get him?” He traced a finger along the rim of the glass, eyes fixed on its slow revolution. “No feast. No celebration. No gratitude. Just more bloody work.”
I braced myself against the sideboard, the cold bite of marble grounding me. “If you’re saying you’ve never had anything handed to you, forgive me if I don’t quite buy it.”
James’s laugh came out low and bone-dry. “Oh, I’ve been handed plenty, little brother. The business. The expectations. The duty. The slow, choking certainty that I’ll die of boredom at a board meeting or one of Father’s interminable charity events.” He set the glass down, face hardening. “You, though—” He pointed, the gesture sharp as a chess move. “You get to fuck up. Publicly. You get to crash and burn—kill your fiancée, shag your student, whatever you bloody well like.”
That was the point where most men would’ve thrown a punch. I just locked my jaw and let the fury settle into ice. “Anything else?”
James’s smile sharpened, mean and precise. He leaned close, voice dropping. “Do you know what’s most galling? No matter what you do, someone’s always there to clean up after you. Wipe the slate. Sweep away the mess. What mess is it this time, hmm?” His gaze flicked up, cold and bright. “The American girl upstairs? Did you at least give her top marks for fucking you?”
A pulse hammered in my throat, slow and savage. The library blurred—sideboard, dust motes spinning in the slant of sun, bone-white knuckles around a clenched fist. I forced air through my nose, measured and deliberate. “You’re out of line.” Each word balanced on the thin edge of my control.
