Page 94 of Boiling Point
I rolled my eyes again. “It’s absurd, I know.”
The overhead chime sounded, followed by the familiar cadence of a flight attendant’s voice. “The boarding door is now closed. Please ensure all carry-on items are stowed, and your devices are in airplane mode…”
Soft thuds echoed down the aisle as the overhead compartments clicked shut. The engine hummed beneath us, and my pulse jumped. I tightened my seatbelt—like it would help—then turned back to Gabrielle.
“The only titles I’ve ever cared about,” I said, “I earned myself.”
She reached across the divider and brushed her fingers against mine. “Massive respect.” Leaning in close with a wicked gleam, she added, “And I do love that look you get when I call you ‘Professor.’”
The car hummed beneath us, the soft thrum of tires on damp country roads muffled by layers of luxury insulation. The countryside blurred past in a wash of green hedgerows, moss-covered stone walls, and distant oaks dappled with muted mid-morning sun. The sun had actually come out for myhomecoming—miracles did happen. Or perhaps the universe just had a twisted sense of humor.
Gabrielle slept against my shoulder, her breath slow and even. One hand curled in her lap and the other rested against my chest, a featherlight warmth through my jacket. I cradled her, fingertips grazing the ends of her hair where they spilled over her shoulder.
She trusted me. Entirely. Without hesitation.
God help us both.
I let my thumb drift over the crown of her head, slow and careful, as if I could hold on to this quiet moment a little longer. She’d fallen asleep less than half an hour into the drive, lulled by jet lag, the softness of the seat, and the way I’d pulled her close when she leaned into me. She hadn’t even fought it. Just exhaled and let go.
I envied her that.
The driver—someone new and unfamiliar—had offered a clipped “Welcome home, sir” at the airport and then had fallen into blessed silence. I hadn’t asked his name. He hadn’t offered it. Small mercies.
We were a mile out, maybe less. I knew this road—the gentle bend through the woodland, the slow rise before the estate walls came into view. I’d walked it. Driven it. Sprinted down it as a boy, trying to outrun the weight of everything that lurked behind those gates.
Now I was bringing her into it. The legacy. The expectations. The precision-polished façade of a family that had never once accepted anything they couldn’t control.
I’d spent years carving out a different life—measured, ordinary, my name just ink on a syllabus in a town where my father’s name didn’t reach. No titles. No press. No obligations dressed up as tradition. And now I was undoing all of it, one mile at a time.
I’d told myself this was necessary. That she deserved to see it, to know what she was stepping into. But part of me knew better. Part of me had known, the moment she pressed her palm to my chest and said she wasn’t afraid, that it was already too late to protect her.
They would be civil, of course. That was the danger. Civility could cut sharper than cruelty—and in that house, it always did.
And somewhere in the marrow of it all—still—was Claire. Not her presence, exactly. Just the echo of her absence. The way her name was never spoken, the ending of her story rewritten before her body was cold. Not to protect me. To protect themselves.
I could never unsee that. And I could never unring the silence.
And still—here was Gabrielle. My love. Tucked against me like I was safe.
I let my eyes close. Just for a breath.
Then I turned my head, speaking low beside her ear. “Gabrielle.” I gently brushed her arm. “We’re nearly there.”
Chapter 34
Gabrielle
Cal’s voice was soft, a gentle breath against my ear. “Gabrielle, we’re nearly there.”
I blinked awake slowly, disoriented. The car’s interior was softly lit, the windows bright with a kind of sunlight I didn’t recognize—gentle and diffused, like it had passed through lace before touching the earth. Nothing like Texas. No glare. No weight. Just warmth without burden.
Cal’s arm was still around me, warm and steady—but the rest of him had gone rigid. I shifted to look at him. His expression was unreadable, carved from something colder than usual, his gaze locked on the road ahead. The calm he wore so convincingly had gone brittle around the edges.
I straightened, rubbing at my eyes. “How long was I out?”
“About an hour,” he said. “You didn’t miss much. Fields. Trees. Cows.”
His words were light, but not his tone.
