Page 7 of Boiling Point
“Interested in aviation?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to one of the framed prints on the wall.
“Oh yes, as long as I can remember. If it has wings, I’m in love.”
He nodded, an almost boyish spark in his eye. “Jets too, I take it?”
“Especially jets.” I moved to join him, savoring the shift from awkward hostess to something more familiar. “I grew up with them.”
“Air Force?” His voice was curious, nothing like the clipped tone he used in class.
“Nope. My dad.” The words floated between us, carrying more weight than I’d intended.
He seemed to consider this, then diverted his attention to the pot on the stove. “The water is nearly ready.” Steam curled from its surface. He grabbed two clean mugs from the cabinet and dropped in fresh English breakfast tea bags from the box I’d left on the counter. He pulled the pot from the stove just as it started to boil, waited a few seconds for the turbulence to calm, and then carefully poured steaming hot water into each cup.
The ritual of it felt new and exciting, as if I were sharing some small intimacy with him—beyond the tea. We lingered in the kitchen while the tea steeped. He watched me closely, as though searching for something beyond books and lectures.
Finally, he angled his head. “And you? Do you fly?”
I smiled. “I had my pilot’s license before I could even drive a car,” I replied proudly.
Dr. Hawthorne raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “You’re full of surprises, Miss Clark.”
Hearing him say my name again was a surprise, too—formal, but tender and more intimate than I’d expected. And in that accent…
He glanced at his watch—gold with a black leather band. The kind with hands and numbers instead of pixels and notifications. It suited him. “Time’s up. The tea should be ready now.”
“You really take your tea seriously.”
“Guilty,” he replied. “Please tell me you have milk.”
Silently, I pulled a carton from the fridge and set it on the counter.
He took it from me, poured a splash into each mug, and gave them both a careful stir. “There we are,” he said, handing one to me with a nod of approval. “A proper cup of tea.”
The ceramic was warm beneath my fingers, and the steam carried a stout, earthy aroma. We stood there, close enough that I could see rainwater still glistening in his hair like tiny beads of glass. I sipped delicately, watching his reaction over the rim of my mug. He tasted his tea with all the scrutiny of grading an exam, then cracked a smile that reached his eyes.
“Sorry about my paltry tea service,” I offered with a shrug.
He shook his head, the smile lingering. “No need to apologize. We redeemed it.” The warmth of his gaze took the sting out of my self-deprecation.
I laughed and gestured toward the living room. We settled on the couch, and somehow, Dr. Hawthorne’s presence in my modest apartment felt entirely natural as he glanced around at my eclectic mix of belongings, sipping from his mug.
“I’m guessing your place has a few more textbooks and a bit less nineties plaid?” I mused, leaning back into the cushions.
He let out a dry chuckle. “And perhaps a kettle or two. Though I admit, my place leans heavily toward function over form. Just me, so I’ve only myself to please.”
The words slipped into the quiet like a dropped pin.
Just him.
I nodded slowly, lifting my mug to hide the smile tugging at my lips.
His eyes found mine again—bright and engaged. “I suppose I’m curious about how you started flying. Not the most common hobby.”
I leaned forward, setting my tea on a crocheted coaster on the coffee table. “It was my dad’s hobby first. He had a knack for getting me obsessed with his favorite things. We started with models—half our garage was full of them.” I laughed, the energyof nostalgia flowing through me as memories flooded back, vivid as daybreak. “Then we moved up to the real deal—Cessnas, mostly. I got to sit up front while he flew. We’d spend hours at the airport just watching jets land and take off.”
The words brought a sudden wistfulness, and he must have noticed a change in my expression.
“I sense this is a sore subject,” he said gently, setting his cup down with care. “Forgive me for prying.”
