Page 32 of Boiling Point
I took his phone, entered my number, and promptly texted myself to ensure I had his as well. A moment later, my pocket buzzed.
“Efficient,” he remarked with an approving nod. He moved into the living room, grabbed the black leather jacket he’d draped over the couch, and shrugged it on, the motion fluid and easy. The worn leather sculpted itself to his frame, and something in me fluttered at the sight.
I crossed over to him, trailing my fingers in an appreciative path up his chest. “You look good in black,” I said, unable to keep the note of admiration from my voice. “Makes your eyes look even more…” I searched for the right word, settling on a breathy laugh. “Striking.”
He caught my hand and pulled me closer, kissing me with a lingering sweetness that sent warmth spilling through me. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured against my lips.
I exhaled softly as he pulled away, the absence of his touch leaving a quiet ache behind. He paused at the door, one hand on the knob.
“Don’t forget to call your aunt back,” he reminded gently.
I rolled my eyes and gave him a light shove. “Go,” I said with mock exasperation. “Before I change my mind.”
Chapter 13
Callum
The morning sun strained against the classroom windows, casting oblong patterns across the tiled floor. I stood at the lectern, loading my slides for the morning’s lecture, when a voice—shrill and syrupy—pierced my focus.
“Dr. Hawthorne?”
I vaguely recognized her as one of my nameless, middle-row slouchers, but her casual air of entitlement was infuriating—the type with a bountiful trust fund and an unswerving belief in her own exceptionality. Glossy bottle-blonde hair swung like a metronome against her designer peacoat as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“I was absent Friday,” she announced, though her inflection made it sound more like a question.
“So I noticed,” I replied.
She narrowed her eyes, clearly unaccustomed to indifference, and angled her head. When she spoke again, her words were pitched with a nascent whine. “I heard we had a pop quiz. Since I wasn’t here, I’d like to make it up.”
Perfectly predictable. I set my pen down and regarded her with the detached curiosity I might show an unexpected lab result. “I’m afraid not.”
Her mouth fell open slightly. “But the quiz wasn’t on the syllabus,” she protested, composure slipping. “How can you grade us on something we couldn’t possibly prepare for?”
My patience thinned, irritation prickling beneath the surface as I folded my arms. “Pop quizzes are, by definition, unexpected.”
Gabrielle entered, a soft halo of light catching her hair as she slipped quietly into her seat. My irritation eased, and a frisson of awareness passed between us before I schooled my expression.
“But there’s not even a grading line on the syllabus for quizzes,” the student pressed, arms crossed, hip cocked. She jutted her chin in defiance, expectantly waiting.
“Read your syllabus again. They’re included in your participation grade.”
She didn’t move.
“Your name?” I asked as I opened my email on my laptop.
“Sloane,” she said, adding a haughty pause before delivering the rest like a trump card. “Cartwright.”
Of course that was her name.
She studied my face for a reaction, then added impatiently, “Yes,thoseCartwrights.”
I couldn’t resist a faint smile at her presumption. “Should that mean something to me?”
“As in Cartwright Tower?” Disbelief sharpened her tone.
“Never heard of it,” I lied.
Her expression faltered, and I could almost hear the gears grinding as she recalculated her approach.
