Page 105 of Boiling Point
His words cracked through the room like a slap, and Cal’s arm tensed around me. I didn’t know what Switzerland had to do with anything, but I knew a calculated strike when I heard one—and so did Cal.
He drew a sharp breath. The air shifted like he might stand and storm out. Instead, he took my hand—firm, not desperate—his eyes fixed on James with cold, measured fury. The room felt smaller, stifling. I tried to pull away, to give him space, but he held me close.
The tension crackled—hot, sharp, brittle—before Cal finally stood. His silence held a beat longer than the air could bear. “As much as we’d love to stay and reminisce, I’m afraid we’re far too travel-worn to be pleasant company,” he said, his voice so polite, it dripped with venom. His accent was the strongest I’d ever heard it. “If you’ll excuse us.”
The room went still, the air thick with the echo of what hadn’t been said. Cal extended his hand, his grip sure and steady as I rose.
James stayed sprawled in his chair, his smile thin and knowing. He tipped his glass in our direction—a salute or a dismissal, it was hard to tell.
Isabel rose, apology soft in her eyes. “Good night, darling,” she said, kissing my cheek with a warmth that only deepened the fracture in the room.
I managed a faint smile. “Good night.”
Cal’s grip tightened as we left the drawing room. We walked in silence, my pulse loud in my ears, the weight of his stillness pressing in from all sides. He moved with tense precision, like the slightest misstep might shatter him.
The corridor felt endless. Our footsteps swallowed the space, and I wondered how much longer he could carry the strain.
At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and turned to me. The mask slipped—just for a second—and I saw the anguish underneath.
He didn’t say a word—not aloud, anyway.
He walked me to my room in silence.
Lingering in the doorway, he finally spoke. “Would you mind if I stayed a while?”
I turned to him and cocked my head. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”
He gave a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes, then closed the door, shrugged off his jacket, and loosened his bowtie.
“You don’t have to wear the mask with me, you know.”
“And for that”—he unfastened the first few buttons of his shirt—“I’m more grateful than I can say.” He sank into the blue-and-white patterned armchair in the corner. “Not even twenty-four hours, and you’re already seeing us for what we really are. I’m so sorry for dragging you into this madness, Gabrielle.”
A thousand questions crowded my mind, but now wasn’t the time. I sat on the ottoman in front of him and laid a hand on his knee. “I’m tougher than I look.”
He shifted under my hand, eyes weary. “I know you are,” he said, voice low with something close to awe. “But you shouldn’t have to be.” He laced his fingers with mine, curling slowly, like he was afraid to let go. “I want you to seeme—not this.” He gestured vaguely at the room, the house, the legacy hanging over it all.
I shifted onto the arm of the chair, leaning into him until the tension began to bleed away. “I do see you, Cal. I always have. Not my professor, not the son of a duke?—”
“Baron,” he corrected.
“Whatever he is. It doesn’t matter. I see you—who you are, not what you are. And I love you, no matter what wrapping you come in.”
His breath caught, and for a moment, I thought he might say something. But instead, he pulled me closer, pressing his forehead to my shoulder—a small act of surrender that said more than words ever could.
We stayed like that for a while, the silence thick, calm, until I felt the tightness in him begin to soften. His breath steadied, his body relaxing against mine, the strain of the evening slowly unwinding its grip. Finally, he shifted, his eyes meeting mine with raw, unguarded honesty that sent a shiver of tenderness through me.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough around the edges.
I awkwardly raked my fingers through his hair—thick with dried gel—and kissed his forehead. “Anytime.” I fingered the silk of his bowtie. “And by the way, you look absolutely devastating in a tux. Hot doesn’t begin to cover it.”
For the first time, he smiled—truly smiled.
He pulled me onto his lap, and I let out a soft, surprised sound as his lips found mine. “I’m bloody glad you wore that dress,” he murmured against my mouth, fingers brushing mybare shoulder—a slow, deliberate tease. “The one I liked so much.”
His smile ghosted across my skin, his breath warm and insistent against my neck. Then he nipped at my ear, setting off a shiver I couldn’t hope to contain. “I’ve been imagining taking it off you all night.”
I swatted him playfully, my hand grazing the curve of his jaw. “Cal…”
