Page 24 of Boiling Point
“You’re in the South,” I shot back, sipping the remnants through the striped plastic straw. “Sweet tea is a staple here. I’ll accept your way of making hot tea, but leave my iced tea alone.”
“Fair enough.” He reached across the table and brushed his fingertips along the back of my hand. My skin tingled.
“Your turn,” I said, eager to shift the focus before my emotions unraveled. “What got you into physics?”
Cal patted my hand lightly before leaning back in the booth. “Rebellion against my own father, I suppose. Though far less noble than yours.”
“Rebellion against what?” I asked, dragging my straw through the ice in my glass.
A shadow flickered across his face—fleeting, but unmistakable. I wondered if he’d retreat into himself, but he didn’t. “Against a future that had already been decided for me.”
“That sounds ominous.” I tilted my head, intrigued by this glimpse behind his composed exterior. “What kind of future?”
“The kind with a seat at the head of a boardroom table,” he said, lifting his glass. “Private banking, investment, development, that sort of thing. Back in the day, it was railroads and sea lanes. Now it’s mostly banks, real estate, and an exhausting amount of polished small talk.” He took a sip, thenadded dryly, “My father was thoroughly unimpressed when I chose quantum mechanics over capital markets.”
“Family business?”
He nodded. “Going back generations.”
The image of Cal in some glossy London office—bespoke suit, dead eyes, too-tight tie—was so wrong it made me smile. “So you went from rebel son to?—”
“Rebel professor,” he finished, the smile returning. “Or as my father calls it, ‘an expensive disappointment with?—’”
“Tenure?” I guessed.
“Almost.” His chuckle was soft, almost a sigh. “Which somehow makes it worse.”
“Almost?”
“I’m up for review next year.” His words were so casual, but I could hear the gravity beneath them.
“For tenure?”
He nodded.
“You’ll have to explain tenure and the whole university rank structure to me sometime. My aunt has tried, but it never sticks.”
“It’s not complicated.” He gestured layers with a flat hand. “Adjunct, assistant, associate, professor with tenure.”
“And you are?”
“Associate.”
The waitress returned with our food just as a knot of guilt tightened in my stomach. She set the steaming plates before us, but the rich, savory aroma did nothing to quell my sudden unease. I poked at the melted cheese spilling from beneath the crisp tortilla, my appetite evaporating as quickly as it had arrived.
“You’ve gone quiet.” Cal’s voice was gentle, probing. I felt his gaze on me—steady, unflinching—unraveling every thought I tried to keep hidden. “What is it?”
I hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t ruin everything. “It’s just…” I toyed with the frayed edge of my napkin as his expression shifted from curiosity to concern. “What if this”—I gestured between us—“jeopardizes your career? Your shot at tenure?”
He reached across the table again, capturing my restless hands in his. “Of all the things I might have expected you to say,” he murmured, “that was not one of them.”
“I’d hate to get in the way of something so important.” The words tumbled out. “I can’t stand the thought of being responsible if?—”
“Gabrielle.” He squeezed my hand, silencing my anxious spiral. “If anyone should be worrying about impropriety and consequences, it’s me.” The intensity in his eyes softened, and I saw something else—a vulnerability I hadn’t expected. “I just hope you don’t think…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “The last thing I want is for you to see me as some sort of…creep.”
I blinked, startled by the confession. “There’s no way I’d ever think that.”
“Because I know how it looks—a lecherous professor chasing after a beautiful, young”—he kissed the back of my hand—“irresistible student.”
