Page 149 of Boiling Point
My shoulders sagged. “It’s done.”
“And?”
“Gainfully unemployed. Effective immediately.” I tried for a smile. “But it’s not as bleak as it could have been. I’ll work again in my natural lifetime.”
She smiled, eyes glimmering with a pride that nearly undid me.
“And…” She hesitated, dropping her voice. “Sloane Cartwright’s digital crusade?”
“Thwarted.” I kissed her knuckles, one by one. She let me. “Thanks to you. The only crime I answered for was the one I actually committed.”
She curled against my side, head on my shoulder. I was baking from the inside out—why on earth had I insisted on wearing a full suit today?—but I didn’t care. I would have burned alive and never pulled back from her touch.
“I hope you’ll still have me,” I managed, though my voice came out more thread than steel. “How does it go—‘for better or worse’? I believe this qualifies as worse.” I meant it as a joke, but the words trembled in their casing.
She nudged me with her knee, all warmth, even in the brittle light. “Yeah, but you’re still rich, so it balances out.”
Her delivery was so dry I almost missed it. I snapped my head up—reflex, not reason.
She grinned, a bright, unrepentant flash. “Relax, Cal. Let me have my joke.” Then she softened, pressing the backs of my fingers to her cheek. “You know I’ve never cared about any of that.”
I exhaled, letting the tension drain from my jaw. The sun sliced like a knife, but the cool of her palm anchored me. “I know.”
She kissed me, right there in the open, careless of the optics. Her tongue tasted of mint and the last hint of morning coffee.
I threaded my fingers through her hair and kissed her back with everything I’d ever denied myself: heat, hunger, the absolute abdication of consequence. Sweat traced along my hairline. My heart was a brass band in my chest.
She drew back, breathless, laughing in a way that was all lungs and sunlight. “You’ve been holding out on me, Dr. Hawthorne.”
I nipped at her bottom lip. “What are they going to do? Fire me?”
She laughed again, then met my eyes. “Whatever happens, you’ve still got me.”
And that—God help me—was everything.
Epilogue
Gabrielle
“What in God’s name is that?” Cal stared at the swirling, dark-green-and-black shot on the gnarled wooden table in front of him.
“It’s a shot,” I answered, sliding into the high-backed leather booth with my matching concoction. I picked up the drink menu of what passed for this small town’s local brewpub. “It’s called the Reaper. You’re welcome.”
He squinted at it. “It’s eleven in the morning.”
I shrugged and spun my glass between my fingers. The rim was sticky from a careless pour, and the licorice burn of cheap absinthe cut through the clamor and yeast of midday bar air.
“If we’re toasting the death of my career, that’s rather brutal, isn’t it?”
“Death, yes. But also the opportunity for rebirth.”
“How philosophical.” He pushed his sleeves to his elbows—his tie and jacket lay abandoned in the car. A few locks of his dark hair fell haphazardly across his forehead. He lifted his glass. “What’s in this?”
I clinked my shot to his. “Doesn’t matter. Bottoms up.”
We downed them, the liquor searing a path straight to my stomach.
He coughed into his fist and slammed the glass down. “That was revolting. Possibly the worst drink I’ve ever had. Did you order battery acid?”
