Page 31 of Boiling Point
He tilted his head, studying me with a tender smolder. “I know what I’m doing,” he said quietly. He held his hand out again, palm up, waiting. I placed my fingers in his, tentative but wanting. “Your company is well worth the risk.”
I wanted to believe him—needed to—but couldn’t help the doubt that whispered cold in my ear.
“But I do plan to wine and dine you in splendor,” he said, brushing his lips across my knuckles. “And I need to keep my job in order to do that.”
I looked down. “What if I dropped your class?”
His expression darkened, like the idea genuinely pained him. “I can’t have your academic course disrupted because of me.”
“But—”
“Engineering at Page College is housed firmly within the physics department, Gabrielle. There’s no way you could major in engineering and steer clear of my courses.” His voice was firm, but I sensed a pleading note beneath it.
“I could change my major,” I insisted, though even to me, it sounded ridiculous.
He shook his head, a soft impatience edging into his tone. “It’s a moot point. University policy prohibits relationships with students—full stop. Whether they are in one’s course or not. You could major in comparative unicorn studies, and it wouldn’t make the slightest difference.” Cal caught my gaze, his intensity almost fierce. “I don’t believe there are formal consequences against students for…inappropriate relationships. The responsibility falls solely on the instructor, as it should.” He curled his fingers around mine, grip tight, eyes searching and tumultuous. “But if there were informal consequences for you? If your academic path is disrupted because of me? I wouldn’t forgive myself.”
“You think I’d forgive myself if you lost your job because of me?”
Our words collided in the air, clashing and falling between us like stones on the carpet. A pause stretched, taut and uncertain, until he let out a slow, resigned breath.
“Absolute discretion then,” he said quietly.
I nodded, bunching the hem of my sweater in my fist. “Yes. Absolute.”
Cal rose from the table, finishing his tea in a single swallow. He carried his mug to the sink and rinsed it, his movements unhurried and deliberate. He checked his watch, then said reluctantly, “I should head home. I’ve got a few things to finish up for tomorrow.”
Disappointment bloomed sharp beneath my ribs, but I tried to hide it behind a smile as I stood. He held out his hand for my empty mug, and I gave it to him.
“Thanks.”
He nodded and rinsed my cup too, placing both neatly in the dishwasher.
“When will I see you again?” My voice was quiet, almost tentative.
He turned back, amusement flickering in his gray eyes. “In class at eight?” he ventured.
I shook my head, determined now beneath the hesitation. “No.” I stepped closer, searching his face with all its careful restraint. “I’ll see Dr. Hawthorne tomorrow at eight,” I corrected gently. “When will I seeyou?”
Cal’s expression softened. He cupped my face and traced his thumb gently along my cheek. “When do you want to see me again?” he asked with a playful lilt. “I don’t want to monopolize your time.”
“If I had my way, you wouldn’t be leaving now,” I confessed, heat rising beneath the soft stroke of his finger. “But I can’t be selfish.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, slow and warm, curling around my heart. “Then let’s compromise,” he suggested, his voice low and persuasive. “We’ll play the week by ear.” He paused, holding my gaze with a tender gravity. “Especially these first few weeks. I tend to front-load the term—lecture prep, research design, the usual.”
Disappointment pinched at my chest before I could stop it, and my face must have betrayed me.
Cal tilted my chin up, coaxing my eyes back to his. “As I said,” he repeated, smiling again, soft and reassuring, “we’ll take the week as it comes. But—I did promise you a home-cooked meal.”
I blinked as the realization sank in.
He added, “Friday night seems perfect. If you’re free, of course.”
The days between now and then felt endless, but I nodded. “You’d better not cancel on me,” I warned lightly.
He leaned in, resting his forehead gently against mine for a moment that stretched, sweet and suspended. “I wouldn’t dare.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. “Might I have your number?”
I dipped my head to hide my smile. His formality was endearing.
