Page 37 of Boiling Point
I’ll get my homework out of the way so I can give you my full attention tomorrow.
The reply came seconds later, like he hadn’t even paused to think.
Then I’ll be sure to give you something worth concentrating on.
My stomach flipped so hard I nearly dropped the phone. I heard the words in his voice—low, measured, velvet-edged. I curled in on myself, tucking my knees beneath me, grinning like a lunatic into the collar of my sweater.
God help me, I was in so much trouble.
Chapter 15
Callum
“You brought me to an Air Force museum?”
Gabrielle’s voice echoed off the corrugated metal walls, caught between disbelief and delight.
I locked the car. “What were you expecting? A champagne cruise down the Seine?”
She glanced up at the tan aluminum building with royal blue shutters, its sloped roof gleaming in the afternoon sun. The sign readPerrin Air Force Base Museum. She looked at me like she was torn between concern and reluctant admiration.
“Unconventional,” she said, “but you do know how to make a girl swoon.”
“I do my best.”
Inside, the cool air carried the scent of aged metal and sun-warmed concrete, layered with the ghost of jet fuel long since dried. Gabrielle had barely made it two steps before she stopped short, her gaze locking on a gleaming blue-and-white jet planted like royalty at the center of the exhibit floor.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
I leaned in. “Careful. I think you’re drooling.”
She shot me a look over her shoulder—mock-scathing, entirely fond. “You brought me here just to watch me geek out, didn’t you?”
“Guilty,” I said, utterly unrepentant.
She took off like a shot, circling the aircraft with wide eyes and a reverence usually reserved for priceless art. I followed at a more leisurely pace, letting her enthusiasm set the course.
The museum’s interior was cavernous but crammed, its layout more passion project than polished curation. Artifacts from every era of military aviation filled the space—propellers suspended from the rafters, flight suits sealed behind plexiglass, training manuals stacked beside polished engine components. A mannequin pilot in full gear slouched in a cockpit shell, painted eyes fixed on the middle distance.
Gabrielle barely noticed. She was already halfway around the jet, vibrating with excitement. “Cessna T-37B Tweet,” she rattled off, practically bouncing. “Twin-engined trainer jet, used for decades. She’s gorgeous.”
“She?”
Gabrielle ignored the question, pressing her palms to the stanchion rope like proximity alone might satisfy her hunger. “I’ve only ever seen one in photos. Look at the cockpit! And they’ve got the J47 over there too—I can’t believe it.”
I followed her line of sight to the back corner where a General Electric turbojet engine sat on its stand like a metallic beast, its polished casing flayed open to expose its gleaming heart.
“First jet engine with a thrust-to-weight ratio over one,” she said, spinning to face me. “Changed everything.”
I smiled at how she came fully alive. This was Gabrielle in her element—sharp, unfiltered, electrified. And no idea how stunning she was. I wondered, fleetingly, if she had the faintest notion what it did to me—watching her like this.
I cleared my throat.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” She fixed me with a penetrating gaze, her head tilted.
I shook my head, a smile still tugging at my lips. “Your enthusiasm is exhilarating. Not that I needed more proof, but seeing you like this tells me you’ve chosen the right field of study—and eventually, the perfect future.”
Her expression softened into something vulnerable and luminous—a look that threatened to unravel the last of my composure if I stared too long.
