Page 6 of Boiling Point
Dr. Hawthorne’s voice stopped me. “You’ll be drenched before you get inside.” He retrieved his umbrella from the back seat. “Let me walk you to your door.”
I hesitated, sensing this wasn’t an offer he made lightly. But I didn’t have a better option. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I insist.”
He was out of the car before I could say anything else. He jogged around to my side and opened my door, and I dashed alongside him through the parking lot, water sloshing up around us with each hurried step. By the time we reached my apartment, my shoes were soaked through, and the cuffs of my jeans dripped steadily.
“Thank you,” I said breathlessly, fumbling in my purse for my keys.
He stood beside me, droplets trailing down his cheekbones, dark hair clinging in errant strands across his brow. “It’s really coming down,” he remarked, shaking some of the water from his sleeves.
I paused before unlocking my door, feeling an unexpected reluctance to let this strange evening end. “You should come inside,” I suggested, trying to sound nonchalant, though there was a tremor of hopefulness in my voice. “At least until it calms down. You could barely see the road on the way out here.”
His hesitation was palpable, an internal debate flickering across his features. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” he said softly.
“Nonsense,” I insisted. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stranded on campus. At least let me return the favor by offering somewhere dry to wait out the weather.”
He seemed about to protest, but then he glanced up at the deluge pouring from the slate-gray night sky. “Very well,” he said with a resigned nod.
I led him inside, the rain muffled by the door’s solid thud as I closed it behind us. The space was small and unassuming,but it was mine—framed vintage aviation prints and Dad’s old nineties-era furniture claiming every corner. The air was warm and dry, laced with the faint scent of lemon and lavender from a half-burned candle on the coffee table.
“Make yourself at home,” I offered, hoping he couldn’t hear my heart racing. He stood awkwardly near the door, gaze sweeping over the place before settling back on me.
“It’s charming.” His expression was unreadable.
“Can I get you anything?” I brushed damp strands of hair off my forehead. “A cup of tea, maybe?” I winced internally, afraid I’d sounded trite—offering tea to a Brit—but he did mention he liked tea during our first class.
He raised an eyebrow, a glint of humor lighting his eyes. “You can certainly try.”
Relief washed over me. “Challenge accepted. I make tea all the time.” I rummaged in the cabinet and pulled a box of assorted tea. “I’ve got Earl Grey, spiced orange, lemon, peppermint, and English breakfast.”
He chuckled as he shed his coat and draped it over the back of a dinette chair. “Of those options, English breakfast would be best.”
I pulled out a packet of English breakfast for him and spiced orange for me, taking a moment to enjoy the delicious aroma of the orange tea before grabbing two navy blue ceramic mugs and filling them with tap water.
I turned to find Dr. Hawthorne standing at the entrance of my tiny kitchen, his eyes following my every move with glib curiosity. I could practically feel the disapproval rolling off him as I dunked the tea bags into cold water, their strings draping over the rims of the mugs like tiny life rafts.
“It appears,” he said, a playful lilt in his voice, “that I have more to teach you than just physics.”
“What?” I asked, tugging the microwave door open.
He stepped closer, crossing the worn linoleum with an air of gentle authority. “Tea tends to perform better in hot water.”
“Oh!” I laughed and quickly pulled the tea bags from their chilly bath. The color had barely begun to leech, leaving behind only pale, earthy wisps. “Heat the water first. Got it.”
When I moved to put the mugs in the microwave, he shook his head. “Not quite,” he chided softly, the corners of his mouth lifting in an almost smile. “Since we haven’t covered magnetism and waves in class yet, I’ll let that slide. But microwaving water is generally not a brilliant idea.”
I set the cups down on the counter and muffled a self-conscious sigh.
“Do you have a kettle?” he asked, still teasing but not unkind.
“No kettle,” I admitted. “I guess I’m hopeless. How about a small saucepan?”
“That’ll do.”
I pulled a tiny pot from the depths of a cabinet and handed it to him. Our fingers brushed for the briefest moment. He took the pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. There was something strangely captivating about the way he moved—deliberate and precise, like brewing tea was an art I’d hopelessly butchered.
The burner hissed to life, electric coils glowing orange. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, glancing around my apartment.
