Page 92 of Boiling Point
Dr. Watkins laughed. “Theoretical physicists,” he said with a wink. “No appreciation for the experimental wonders of the world.”
I laughed, bright and unrestrained. “And they say science is boring.”
He chuckled, his face flushed with enthusiasm. “You’re always welcome in the lab, Gabrielle. Anytime.”
I smiled, grateful and guilty all at once. If he’d known I was considering a transfer—no, planning on one—I doubted he’d be quite so eager.
Cal must have sensed my hesitation. “The equipment will still be there in the fall.” He clapped Dr. Watkins on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get these blasted robes hung up. I’m boiling.”
Cal started up the steps, then paused. He glanced back, eyes cutting through the shade like a flash of silver. A half-smile pulled at his mouth—just enough to register, gone just as fast.
“Enjoy your summer break, Miss Clark.” Even and polished. Nothing out of place.
I dipped my chin. “You too, Dr. Hawthorne.”
A flicker lit in his eyes. Nothing overt—just a spark caught and banked. He nodded once, turned, and disappeared inside, scarlet robes whispering behind him.
Chapter 33
Callum
The first-class cabin was calm by design—soft lighting, carpeted silence, and the curated hush of affluence. No announcements. No scramble for overhead compartments. Just the low murmur of conversation, a glass clink here and there, and the slow parade of the rest of the aircraft hidden behind the curtain.
A flight attendant with a sleek blonde chignon appeared at my side, her smile polished and professional. “May I take your jacket?” she asked, her English accent crisply enunciated. One step closer to home.
“Yes, thank you.” I slipped off my blazer, handed it over, and stowed my carry-on in the overhead locker.
I slid down the central divider between our pods, and there she was—curled into the cocoon of her seat, wide-eyed and luminous. Gabrielle was quietly cataloging the amenities, her expression a mix of disbelief and delight as she gestured to the toiletry kit, pajamas, slippers, comforter, and memory-foam pillow.
“You said we were flying first class,” she said, trying for nonchalance and falling short. “You didn’t say it’d be like this.”
I chuckled as I settled into the soft, indulgent leather. “If we have to fly, darling, we may as well be comfortable.”
Gabrielle shook her head with a soft laugh. “You really don’t like planes, do you?”
“No, not particularly.”
She leaned toward me. “Then why on earth did you let me take you flying when we first met?”
I sighed. “Because you asked.” I reached across the divider, took her hand, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I may not have admitted it to myself at the time, but I was desperately trying to impress you.”
She blinked, caught off guard, but her hand softened in mine.
Another flight attendant, an impeccably polished brunette, leaned in to offer warm towels and flutes of sparkling white wine. Gabrielle accepted both with a giddy grin she couldn’t suppress.
She swirled the wine, watching the bubbles rise. “Bubbles before takeoff…like bubbles before dinner. See? I pay attention.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “To what?”
She raised her glass to me. “To you. That first dinner date in Dallas.” She took a sip. “And Isabel. And Google. I took copious notes on everything—what to wear, when to wear it, which fork means what…” She trailed off with a quiet sigh. “I just want to do everything right.”
I shook my head. “You’re worrying too much.”
“I don’t think I’m worrying enough,” she countered. “I don’t even know what to call your parents. Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne?”
I hesitated, then took a drink.
She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Not that?”
