Page 30 of Boiling Point
He shrugged, his expression flickering between modesty and amusement. “It keeps me busy. Out of trouble.”
I smiled. “What’s your specialty?”
He studied me for a beat, like he was deciding how much to say. “Theoretical physics. Quantum field theory, mostly.”
I didn’t know the full meaning of that, but the way he said it—like it mattered, like it was the part of him that ran deepest—made me want to learn.
He took another sip of tea, cradling the mug loosely in one hand. A crease carved between his brows as he stared into the middle distance—not distracted, just thoughtful—like he was building equations behind his eyes.
“What about your research?” I asked. “What are you working on?”
He looked back at me with the faintest flicker of amusement. “You really want to talk about that?”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d rather not bore you out of the room,” he said, though his smile undercut the warning.
I leaned forward, resting my chin in my hand. “I can keep up.”
He gave a short laugh. “I don’t doubt that.” He reached for his mug again. “But let’s get you through second-term physics before we tackle quantum field theory.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a challenge.”
“It’s a public service. I’m preserving your sanity.”
“You’re just stalling.”
He tilted his head, conceding the point. “Fine. One of my students is modeling quantum entanglement in a chain of spin particles. Very simplified stuff, but elegant when it works. Another’s playing with broken symmetry in particle systems—trying to force equations to misbehave so he can study the fallout.”
I blinked. “You’re letting undergrads break physics?”
“I supervise closely,” he said with mock solemnity. “No damage to the fabric of space-time. Yet.” He set his mug down on the bright blue-and-yellow checkered tablecloth beside a cobalt vase of silk sunflowers. “And I’m impressed that you followed all that.”
I dipped my head. “Not really. Just the last bit. The rest went clean over my head.”
Cal took my hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Still impressed.”
My tea was finally cool enough to take a long drink. I’d definitely add sugar next time, but, no lie, the way Cal made it was the best I’d ever had. Maybe it was the right way, as he’d insisted. Or maybe it was becausehe’dmade it. Either way.
I toyed with my mug, turning it slowly between my fingers. “Do you think there’s ever a chance I could do research with you?”
Cal froze, conflict clear on his face—the tug between desire and decorum, between what he wanted and what was wise. He caught himself quickly, but not quickly enough.
“As an engineering major?” he said at last, carefully neutral. “No, probably not.” He shifted in his seat, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. “That would fall more under my colleagues in applied physics. Dr. Watkins, perhaps, or Dr. Lee.”
I felt an unexpected pang of disappointment. Cal must have seen it because he reached across the table, capturing my hand in his.
“I think,” he began softly, brushing his thumb along my knuckles, “we need to talk about what things might look like when we’re in class tomorrow.”
My pulse kicked up, and I swallowed past the dry lump in my throat. I nodded, my heart already squeezing tight at the edges. “Because of the professional implications.”
He held my gaze, serious and steady. “We need to be absolutely discreet. Not because I’m ashamed?—”
“Because you might lose your job,” I finished. The words were like stones in my mouth.
He didn’t look away. “Precisely. A relationship with a student—regardless of the circumstances—is the fastest, most assured way to find oneself unemployed.”
A shiver ran through me despite the warmth of his hand, and I pulled back, wrapping my arms around myself. Guilt coiled in my chest, sharp and insistent. “I feel bad,” I whispered. “Putting your career on the line like this.”
