Page 3 of Boiling Point
I rolled my eyes but smiled. “In this tiny town? That’s rich.”
My brain, of course, chose that moment to conjure up Dr. Hawthorne. Not that he was cute—he was way too intense for that. But there was something about him. Maybe it was the sharp angles of his face, those calculating gray eyes that cut straight through you, or the near-perfect sweep of his short dark hair. He was tall with a swimmer’s build, and his suit clearly wasn’t off the rack. He wore it like it was cut just for him. It probably was. And then there was his accent.Swoon. Like every other girl, I was weak for a British accent. He made physics sound like Shakespeare.
I shook my head, pushing the thoughts away. He was my professor, and that was reason enough to keep my head down. I had more than enough to focus on without adding an unethical crush into the mix.
“So?” Aunt Suzy persisted, her expectation practically humming through the phone.
“So I’m not looking for a guy right now.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t window shop.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I knew she was just trying to lighten the mood. “Look, I’ve got to do some reading and a problem set before today’s physics lecture escapes my head. Thanks for checking on me.”
“Anytime, sweetie. Love you.”
“Love you too.” I ended the call and set the phone on the counter, staring at it for a moment like it might chide me further.
I took a sip of coffee—hot enough to burn my tongue—and settled onto the couch with my physics textbook and Dr. Hawthorne’s lecture notes. AP Physics was eight years in the rearview, and I’d slept, lived, and cried a proverbial river since then. I had a lot of rust to knock off, and I wasn’t about to take any chances. If Wednesday’s class was anything like today’s, I’d need every advantage to keep up.
I skimmed the pages, but the diagrams and equations wouldn’t stick. My mind kept slipping back to the lecture hall, to Dr. Hawthorne’s precise, measured voice. He spoke with absolute confidence, and he commanded the classroom without even trying. When I’d thanked him after class, his eyes on mine—reserved, cautious, but not unkind—had unsettled me more than I’d care to admit.
He didn’t look or move like the other professors at Page, with their sweater vests and easy familiarity. He was sharper, formal, almost refined—as if he belonged somewhere else entirely. Younger too—definitely not fresh out of grad school, but not gray and grizzled at the edges like most of the faculty. Late thirties, maybe?
Stop it, Gabrielle. You’re acting like a schoolgirl with a crush.
I groaned and rubbed my temples. This was the last thing I needed. He was my professor. Any interest beyond that was adistraction—and worse, a liability. I had goals. Real ones. There was no room for silly infatuations.
Not to mention, I was an engineering major. I still had three and a half more years of classes, most of them connected to the physics department—hisdepartment.
I glanced at the textbook again and read the same paragraph three times. I still couldn’t tell you what it said. Circuits were supposed to be easy—the teething ring of second-semester physics. My dad and I had built plenty of circuited projects in the garage over the years. But tonight, none of it made sense. My brain was a tangled mess of resistors and capacitors, overloading and short-circuiting.
Enough. I shut the book harder than necessary and dropped it onto the coffee table. A hot shower—that would help clear my head. And maybe even knock some sense back into me.
Chapter 3
Callum
Asoft tap at my door pulled me out of a mind-numbing email from the dean of students.
“It’s open.”
The door inched forward, revealing a young woman with hesitant eyes and a loose plait spilling over her shoulder. I recognized her immediately as the third-row student who’d spoken to me after our first class.
“Gabrielle Clark,” I said, my surprise bleeding through more than I’d intended. Students rarely appeared at my Thursday afternoon office hours until desperation drove them here, usually closer to the first exam—or afterward, to plead for their grade.
Her eyes widened. “You remember me.” She tentatively stepped inside, notebook clutched to her chest.
“It’s rare to be thanked for a lecture.”
Her cheeks flushed, a delicate shade of pink against the muted gray afternoon light filtering through the window. Rain was coming. She brought an odd warmth to the drab little box that passed for my office—cinderblock walls, shelves of textbooks lined like sentries, and institutional beige metal furniture. The only hint of life was a failing fern slumped onthe windowsill. She wore an oversized forest-green cable-knit jumper over dark indigo jeans—well put together in a classic sort of way.
“Am I interrupting?” she asked, glancing at the papers scattered across my desk—the detritus of administrative tedium.
“Not at all. It’s refreshing to see someone here so early in the term.” I gestured toward the chair opposite me. “Please, have a seat.”
She moved with an unpretentious grace, settling into the chair and placing her notebook on her lap. I caught myself watching her slender, elegant fingers as she traced the cover.
“I was reviewing your notes from the first two classes,” she began, her voice steady but soft. “I’m having trouble with capacitors, I think? Unless it’s something more basic that I’ve missed.”
