Page 39 of Boiling Point
“And gravity?” she asked, wrapping her arms around my neck.
“Undeniable.” I lifted her against the wall and claimed her mouth again.
A loud, theatrical throat-clearing broke the moment, followed by the steady shuffle of footsteps. I eased Gabrielle back to the floor, and we stepped apart just as an elderly museum volunteer passed, her hair a cloud-like halo dyed a whimsical shade of violet. She offered no admonishment beyond a knowing smirk and a dramatic wink. She walked on without a word, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if admiring a pipe.
Gabrielle stifled a laugh, mischief dancing in her eyes.
We wound through display cases and tributes to local veterans until Gabrielle paused before an exhibit entirely devoid of modern machinery. It was a modest section on the American Revolution—glass cases of weathered documents and rows of tarnished muskets, their bayonets dulled by time. A cracked drum and rusted tin plates sat beneath faded banners.
“I didn’t think they’d have anything this old here,” she said, bending to examine a tricorn hat that looked ready to dissolve. Her delight was palpable, tinged with disbelief.
I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped.
She shot me a curious glance. “What’s so funny?”
I hesitated, knowing I was caught either way. “I always find it amusing what Americans consider ‘old,’” I said, leaning against the case with a smirk.
“And what do you consider old, then?” Her eyes sparked with challenge.
“Let me take you to England sometime, and I’ll show you.” The words lingered, charged. A future both imagined and terrifyingly real.
Her lips parted in surprise, then softened into a smile—unguarded. It unraveled me in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. Heat pooled in my chest.
“Well,” she said, teasing yet tender. “I suppose I’d better renew my passport.”
Chapter 16
Gabrielle
Icarried a mug of herbal tea to bed, the scent of chamomile and orange blossom rising with the steam in delicate curls. The tea was flavored, yes, but brewed with care—the way Cal had taught me. I smiled, remembering his meticulous instructions. He’d be proud.
The cup warmed my fingers as I curled up beneath my purple duvet. I nestled into the pillows, their downy softness pure indulgence. A novel lay open face down on the nightstand. I picked it up and tried to lose myself in the story, but it couldn’t hold my attention. The words felt flat and uninspired next to the real fairy tale I was living.
My thoughts drifted back to the museum. The precision of Cal’s touch, the electricity in his voice as he turned science into seduction—everything replayed in vivid detail behind my closed eyes. My pulse quickened at the memory of our daring retreat behind the flight suit exhibit, lost in our secret universe of kinetic energy and charged kisses.
I reached for my phone, half expecting a message from Cal. Nothing. I set it aside, only to pick it up moments later. Impatient with myself, I sent one instead.
I had fun today. The museum was amazing.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself and hugged the phone close, listening for a reply. My apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft whir of the heater. It felt like eons before the phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with Cal’s response.
Not nearly as amazing as you.
I laughed softly, feeling giddy and unguarded. Like a teenager with her first crush—only more reckless and more real. I typed back quickly.
Flattery will get you everywhere.
His reply came almost instantly.
Is that so? I hope you mean it…
A beat later, another message popped up.
What are you doing this evening?
I’m in bed, attempting to read a book (but failing), and drinking a cup of herbal tea I made. I used the kettle! See, I can learn!
I could picture him—brows raised, eyes full of mischief—even before he replied.
