Page 40 of Boiling Point
It’s still potpourri in a cup, but you are indeed learning if I’ve got you to use a kettle.
My turn to hesitate.
See you tomorrow?
My heart stuttered as I waited.
Of course, unless you’re planning to cut my class.
I grinned at his predictability.
I wouldn’t dream of it.
Dream of me instead?
The words left me breathless. I could almost hear the low, coaxing note in his voice. My fingers hovered over the screen before I sent my final reply.
Good night. And yes…see you tomorrow.
Good night, Gabrielle.
The silence that followed was different this time—buzzing with satisfaction and possibility, anticipation like a live wire beneath my skin. I set the phone down and sank into my cocoon of warmth and softness.
I picked up my novel again, determined to make a dent in its pages before sleep claimed me. Still, the words danced before my eyes. I reread them several times, but it was no use. My mind kept drifting to Cal—to his voice, his touch. And to Friday, a lifetime away.
Chapter 17
Callum
“This is a solid proposal.” I finished a few notes in the margin. “Flesh out these sections of your lit review”—I gestured to the highlighted passages—“and tighten the design description. Then we can move forward. Let’s see…today’s Thursday.” I paused, considering. “Have the revisions to me by Monday.”
“Yes, Dr. Hawthorne,” said Jackson, one of my senior research students, as he gathered his papers. “Thanks!” He rushed out of my office. I might have said he moved with urgency, but Jackson was a classic overachieving perfectionist—always moving like he was late for the train. Urgency was his normal speed.
A soft tap sounded at the door.
“Dr. Hawthorne?”
Her voice lit up the room more than any fluorescent bulb could hope to manage. Gabrielle stood there, her presence an unexpected gift. I reined in the impulse to greet her with too much familiarity and instead offered a composed smile and returned formality with formality.
“Come in, Miss Clark.”
She held her notebook tight to her chest, fidgeting with the spiral binding. I wondered if the color in her face owed as much to me as to the chill outside.
“How can I help?” I asked, keeping my tone carefully neutral.
She took a seat in front of my desk and flipped open her notebook, eyes bright and intent.
“I have a few questions about complex circuits,” she said, then hurried on, as if eager to justify herself. “When it’s just a circuit in series or in parallel, I have no problem with the calculations. But when both setups are involved, I’m lost.”
I leaned back, allowing myself an indulgent moment to admire the wayward strands of hair curling to frame her face. It was dangerous having her here like this—alone and entirely within reach—but danger had never felt so exhilarating.
“I can build the circuits in the lab, and I get the overarching concepts, but the math is eluding me.” She paused, looking up at me. “Can you walk me through it?”
I couldn’t resist the opportunity—her words were a bit too tempting. “Perhaps a bit more focus in calculus, Miss Clark?”
She blushed, and I could have sworn the color alone could warm the room. I tapped my pen against the desk, allowing her a moment to recover before shifting seamlessly back into professional mode. “Show me where you’re getting stuck.”
Her pencil flew across the paper, gestures animated and passionate. Each page was filled with diagrams, numbers, and lines of equations tangled like a maze. I leaned closer as she explained her process, acutely aware of how near we were.
