Page 136 of Boiling Point
I swallowed, my throat as dry and rough as sandpaper. “It’s all bullshit,” I said, then regretted the word, but he didn’t flinch.
“I know that. Or I thought I did. But apparently”—he nodded toward me—“there’s some truth to the talk.”
I said nothing.
“I promise I’m on your side. But I need the full picture.” He took a breath, let it out slowly, and looked up at me with pleading eyes. “Help me help my friend. Please.”
I traced a seam in the couch—rough stitching against smooth leather. “You want the truth?” My voice rasped, older than I expected. “All right. I was in Dr. Hawthorne’s class last spring—you know that. We both knew the rules, and we tried not to…” I glanced up. “We were careful. And it wasn’t the usual story. There was no power play, no coercion, no favoritism. I wasn’t some infatuated kid, and he wasn’t…some creep with boundary issues. We were two people who connected at the worst possible time and tried—really tried—not to act on it. But…”
I let the silence settle, heavy as humidity.
Bill’s frown softened, like he was looking at an old photograph and suddenly recognized the face. “I’ve known Cal since he was fresh off his post-doc—back when I had less gray and a higher tolerance for academic bullshit. Cal’s never been reckless,” he said, voice measured. “He’s not manipulative. He’s got integrity in spades, even if he can be a smug bastard about it.”
I snickered at that.
“I can’t say I know you all that well. But I don’t think you’re the type to twist a situation for personal gain.” He glanced down, and his gaze stalled on my left hand. The ring caught a filament of sunlight and threw it across the room in a sharp, dancing glint. Bill’s mouth folded into a line that said he’d expected this, dreaded it, and maybe—on some level—approved. “So it’s the real thing, then,” he said, almost to himself. “I thought as much.” His face—creased by sun and worry—settled into a look of deep, almost paternal, resignation. “I’ve been married twenty-two years. The first time I saw my wife, I knew it was game over. So I get it. And may you both be happy. But you need to understand—this happy ending won’t come easy.”
I swallowed. For a second, the room tilted under me. “I know,” I said. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
He shook his head. “You misunderstand. Page is going to hang Cal out to dry. It’s his word against a mountain of student complaints. And the only person who can offer any truth in this situation is you.”
“But if I say anything, they’ll find him guilty.”
“They’ll find him guilty regardless. But by telling them what’sactuallytrue, you can help the board separate fact from horseshit. And he might have a chance at redeeming his career. Not at Page, of course. But somewhere else.”
“You want me to speak to the review board? Cal wouldn’t allow that.”
“No, he’d never ask it of you. I know him well enough to know that. ButI’masking you. If there’s a chance for you to help him clear his name, this is it.”
Chapter 49
Callum
The curbside pickup at DFW was a hydraulic ballet of roaring engines, tumbling suitcases, and unbridled American hope. No matter how many times I returned, the air always hit the same: scorched concrete, sunburned tar, barbecue smoke, and the dry shimmer of a grassy plain. I scanned the jumble of oversized pickups and gleaming sedans, and my breath caught when I spotted my car in the queue.
Gabrielle leaned against the rear spoiler, a to-go cup from some local caffeine cartel in one hand and sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. Her blonde hair was down—loose, wild, and unrestrained. She wore deliciously short denim shorts and a soft blue top that fit her like sin. She was breathtaking, and I felt a surge of homesickness for her before I’d even reached the curb.
I rolled my suitcase along the pavement and approached, watching her toy with her phone—oblivious to the crowd and out of step with the frantic choreography around her. She didn’t see me at first. Or perhaps she did and wanted to see how long it would take me to break.
I closed the distance and, without preamble, wrapped my arms around her and swept her off the ground. She yelped against my shirt—equal parts delight and disbelief—and I spunher so fast she nearly caught her heels on the bumper. The suitcase toppled. I didn’t care.
When I finally set her down, she punched my arm—hard enough to sting, soft enough to count as affection. “Jesus, Cal,” she said, breathless. “You can’t just manhandle people at arrivals. I almost dumped my coffee all over you.”
“Apologies,” I said and kissed her—daylight, diesel, and parched Texas heat crowding around us. The world blurred, but her lips were solid and sure. A car behind us blared its horn, long and insistent, but it made no dent in the moment.
She drew back, cheeks flushed, pupils blown. “That was very public of you.”
I kissed her again, slower. “I don’t bloody care.”
I popped the boot, slid my suitcase and carry-on inside, and took a perverse satisfaction in the way the lid slammed shut—a clean, final closure on the hell of the past several days. Gabrielle moved for the driver’s side, but I caught her wrist.
“I’m happy to drive, you know,” I said, mostly to assert some token masculinity.
She snorted. “Not on your life. You look half-dead.” She kissed the back of my hand. “Still hot. But half-dead. No offense.”
I rolled my eyes and slid into the passenger seat. The perspective felt wrong—my car, but not my vantage point.
“Besides,” she said, easing from the curb, “I like driving your car. It’s smoother than mine. Less…deathtrap-y.”
