Page 42 of Boiling Point
Moving to the stove, he tossed the vegetables into a skillet, and reached for a wooden spoon.
I looked down at the food, trying to distract myself. “What’s on the menu?”
“Sautéed vegetables over herbed risotto,” he said. “With a side of I-remember-you’re-a-vegetarian.”
My breath caught. “I’m touched you remembered.”
He finally turned, leaning one hip against the counter, wineglass in hand. “There’s very little about you that’s forgettable.”
Before long, we’d settled at the table, my nerves easing with the first bite. The risotto was warm and creamy, the wine mellowed to a hum beneath my skin, and the conversation—easy and open—unfolded between bites. Nothing weighty—just music, movies, the merits of fresh herbs versus dried. Cal was a deft host—attentive without hovering, dryly funny in a way that made me lean in to catch his inflections. By the time we’d cleared the dishes, I realized I hadn’t checked the time once. I didn’t want to.
I lingered at the edge of the dining room, wineglass in hand, watching the track lights paint long shadows across the walls.
“How did you learn to cook like that?” I asked, turning to face him. “That was…legitimately impressive.”
Cal shrugged as he wiped the counter, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “YouTube. And an embarrassing amount of trial and error.”
I raised a brow. “Seriously?”
He leaned against the counter, drying his hands with a towel. “We always had cooks growing up. Staff. Meals were prepared and served.” His tone was light but somehow brittle underneath. “My parents thought cooking was beneath us. Said it was domestic work—not meant for someone with the Hawthorne name.”
I took a slow sip of wine, giving him space. “And you disagreed?”
“I did,” he said. “Eventually. Turns out, self-righteous defiance and the fear of starvation are powerful motivators. That, and the grim realization I couldn’t survive on takeaway and toast forever.”
Before I could reply, he stepped in close, settling his hand at the small of my back—steady, certain, and quietly electric. His touch sent a shiver through me.
“So,” he said, voice low, “I believe I promised you a tour.”
“Lead on,” I managed, more breathless than I meant to be.
He gestured around us. “Well, you’ve seen the kitchen.”
I laughed, the sound light and a little giddy. “Seen it and been thoroughly spoiled by it.”
We stepped into the living room, and it was nothing like what I’d imagined. Instead of dark woods, smoky colors, and books stacked to the ceiling, the space was sleek and modern—almost austere. Black leather furniture with sharp lines contrasted against bursts of saturated color—a red throw, a yellow pillow, geometric patterns that danced across the area rug. Bold, abstract art lined the walls.
“This is…wow.”
Cal rocked back on his heels. “What were you expecting?”
“Not this hyper-modern,” I admitted. I scanned the room again, noting details that didn’t quite fit the Cal I thought I knew. A gaming console sat tucked beneath a large flat screen TV. In acorner, two guitars rested on stands—one acoustic, one electric. “And definitely not rockstar gamer.”
He stepped closer, gray eyes bright with amusement. “I’m not all work.”
“I’m getting that.”
“Here,” he said, taking my hand and leading me down the hallway. His thumb skimmed across my knuckles—a fleeting caress that left sparks in its wake. “I think this next room will feel more…on brand.”
We stopped at a door, and he let go of my hand to open it, revealing a room both familiar and yet wholly unexpected. A large espresso desk dominated the space, covered in neat stacks of notebooks and papers. Bookshelves lined the walls, heavy with physics and mathematics texts, ordered by a system only he could understand. A whiteboard spanned the far wall, dense with quantum field equations and abstract diagrams that seemed to hum with the energy of his mind.
“Should I be impressed or intimidated?”
His laughter was soft, close behind me. “Let’s go with impressed.”
I moved to the whiteboard, searching for a familiar anchor in a sea of complex math and abstraction. “What are you working on?”
He stepped beside me. “This?” He gestured to the board like a maestro before his orchestra. “This is what happens when you’re too stubborn to admit you don’t know everything.” He moved closer, his presence as consuming as the equations on the wall.
