Page 9 of Boiling Point
“Tea. And before you protest, I made it the right way.” She beamed like a five-year-old unveiling a finger-painted masterpiece.
I smiled. “That’s kind, thank you.” A spiced aroma rose as I lifted the mug. “What blend is it?” I asked, though the peppery notes were a dead giveaway.
She fiddled with the hair tie at the end of her single blonde plait. “Earl Grey. We finished off my English breakfast last night.”
“I see.” I took a tentative sip. The bergamot hit sharp and fast. Not my preference, yet I wouldn’t dream of telling her so.
Gabrielle stood in the doorway, bundled in her coat, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Shall we?” I gestured toward the car park, where daybreak cast a pale glow, glistening off the wet pavement like scattered diamonds.
As we walked to my car, a comfortable quiet settled between us—charged with everything I wished I could say. There was a pull toward her that both intrigued and disturbed me. It would be far too easy to cross lines better left intact.
The morning was crisp, the cold air scrubbed clean by rain—damp earth and dormant grass stirred awake by last night’s storm. As we reached my vehicle, I unlocked it and opened the door for her. She looked up at me with an almost sweet eagerness, then slid into the charcoal leather seat.
I started the car. The hybrid engine whispered into the hush of wet roads and early morning stillness. We drove past the grove of trees that bordered her building, their dark trunks glistening with moisture. I was acutely aware of Gabrielle beside me as I took a polite sip from the travel cup. I didn’t care for the taste—too piquant—but I couldn’t bear to let her gesture go to waste.
Silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but substantial enough to demand filling. I considered switching on the radio—an easy, impersonal soundtrack. But something stopped me. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar weight of my hesitation—the awareness of how easily she disarmed me.
“What classes do you have today?” I asked, choosing conversation over music.
She turned toward me, her eyes finding mine in a way that made concentration on the road seem secondary. “Well, I have your class at eight,” she began with a teasing lilt. “But you already knew that.”
A faint smile pulled at my lips. “Yes, I believe I did.”
“Then calculus at ten and psychology at one.”
“That’s a full day,” I said, merging onto the main road toward campus.
“Luckily, I only have French on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so it balances out.”
“French?” I chuckled, more to myself than to her. “That takes me back.”
“To what?”
“To a drafty classroom just outside London, where I learned that French is most definitely not my forte.”
“When did you come here? To Texas, I mean.” Her gaze was steady, as if searching for more than just a timeline.
“About five years ago,” I answered, aware of how simplistic that sounded. How much it omitted. “After a bit of time on the East Coast.”
“What was on the East Coast?”
“I did my postdoctoral studies at Princeton.”
“And before that?”
“Before that, I was at Oxford.”
Her eyebrows shot up. Not an uncommon reaction, but admittedly a tiresome one. “So how did you end up a physics professor in a tiny town in North Texas?” She tilted her head slightly. “Don’t get me wrong—Page College is a great school. But you could have gone anywhere.”
“I needed a change,” I replied, keeping my response as tidy as possible.
She didn’t press, and for that, I was grateful.
We crested a curved bridge over the railroad junction—the closest thing this town had to a flyover. Silly, perhaps, but it was my favorite part of the drive to work each morning.
“Do you have a plan for your vehicle?” I asked as I turned right onto one of the college’s perimeter streets.
