Chapter 10
Gabrielle
“So what made you turn vegetarian?” Cal asked as he perused his scratched-up laminated menu.
“A streak of rebellion when I was eleven,” I answered. The meat-free options at Tia Maria’s Mexican Cantina were sparse, but I settled on a veggie quesadilla.
Cal glanced up at me over the top of his menu. “You can’t just leave it there. Tell the story.”
“It’s not much of a story,” I said, watching his lips curve into a knowing smile—the same one that had undone me so thoroughly by the creek. “There was some epic battle between Dad and me. I can’t remember what it was about now, but it seemed important at the time.”
The restaurant was worn but welcoming—a hole-in-the-wall joint with cracked vinyl booths and strings of chili pepper lights dangling haphazardly from the ceiling.
The air was thick with the scent of cumin and sizzling meat, while laughter and the clatter of plates bounced off the brightly painted walls.
“Dad had grilled steaks for dinner, but I was mad and declared I was a vegetarian.” A flood of memories rushed in as I spoke.
The menu slipped from his fingers as his laughter filled the small cantina—rich and unguarded, an echo of the forest moment we were both reluctant to leave behind. “How did he take that?”
I could still picture the look on Dad’s face, half-amused and half-exasperated. “He didn’t miss a beat. He just said, ‘Suit yourself, eat your broccoli.’ He thought it would blow over in a week.”
Cal’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “But you were too stubborn to let that happen.”
“Exactly,” I said, smiling at the memory of my dad’s resigned patience. “I’m still a vegetarian to this day.”
“A vegetarian rebel,” Cal mused as he set his menu to one side. “How very…fitting.” His voice was light, but an edge of genuine admiration lay beneath it. “And here I was expecting a plea for the plight of livestock.”
“It’s not an ethics thing,” I clarified.
“Though I am in favor of humane treatment of animals.” I took a sip of my iced tea.
“Somewhere along the way, I lost my taste for meat entirely.” I shook my head.
“Actually, that’s not quite accurate. For me, it’s a texture thing.
I don’t mind the flavor, like if something is cooked with meat. I just can’t eat it.”
“I’ll remember that when I cook you dinner.”
Warmth bloomed inside me at the thought of a next time beyond this stolen weekend. “You cook too?” I asked, aiming for casual when it was anything but. “I’m impressed.”
Our server returned to the table, notepad in hand, an amused tilt to her lips. Her look made me wonder just how obvious Cal and I were.
“Ready to order?” she asked, pen poised in her French-tipped fingers.
“Ladies first,” Cal said, nodding to me.
“I’ll have the veggie quesadilla,” I told her, handing over the weathered menu. “With an extra side of sour cream, please.”
“And I’ll have the tacos al carbon.”
“I’ll have that right out.” She clicked her pen closed and glanced at my nearly empty glass. “Need a refill? Sweet or unsweet?”
“Sweet,” I answered. “Thanks.”
She left the table, and I caught Cal trying—and failing—not to laugh.
“What?”
“You keep finding new ways to assault tea.”
“You’re in the South,” I shot back, sipping the remnants through the striped plastic straw. “Sweet tea is a staple here. I’ll accept your way of making hot tea, but leave my iced tea alone.”
“Fair enough.” He reached across the table and brushed his fingertips along the back of my hand. My skin tingled.
“Your turn,” I said, eager to shift the focus before my emotions unraveled. “What got you into physics?”
Cal patted my hand lightly before leaning back in the booth. “Rebellion against my own father, I suppose. Though far less noble than yours.”
“Rebellion against what?” I asked, dragging my straw through the ice in my glass.
A shadow flickered across his face—fleeting, but unmistakable. I wondered if he’d retreat into himself, but he didn’t. “Against a future that had already been decided for me.”
“That sounds ominous.” I tilted my head, intrigued by this glimpse behind his composed exterior. “What kind of future?”
“The kind with a seat at the head of a boardroom table,” he said, lifting his glass.
“Private banking, investment, development, that sort of thing. Back in the day, it was railroads and sea lanes. Now it’s mostly banks, real estate, and an exhausting amount of polished small talk.
” He took a sip, then added dryly, “My father was thoroughly unimpressed when I chose quantum mechanics over capital markets.”
“Family business?”
He nodded. “Going back generations.”
The image of Cal in some glossy London office—bespoke suit, dead eyes, too-tight tie—was so wrong it made me smile. “So you went from rebel son to—”
“Rebel professor,” he finished, the smile returning. “Or as my father calls it, ‘an expensive disappointment with—’”
“Tenure?” I guessed.
“Almost.” His chuckle was soft, almost a sigh. “Which somehow makes it worse.”
“Almost?”
“I’m up for review next year.” His words were so casual, but I could hear the gravity beneath them.
“For tenure?”
He nodded.
“You’ll have to explain tenure and the whole university rank structure to me sometime. My aunt has tried, but it never sticks.”
“It’s not complicated.” He gestured layers with a flat hand. “Adjunct, assistant, associate, professor with tenure.”
“And you are?”
“Associate.”
The waitress returned with our food just as a knot of guilt tightened in my stomach.
She set the steaming plates before us, but the rich, savory aroma did nothing to quell my sudden unease.
I poked at the melted cheese spilling from beneath the crisp tortilla, my appetite evaporating as quickly as it had arrived.
“You’ve gone quiet.” Cal’s voice was gentle, probing. I felt his gaze on me—steady, unflinching—unraveling every thought I tried to keep hidden. “What is it?”
I hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t ruin everything. “It’s just…” I toyed with the frayed edge of my napkin as his expression shifted from curiosity to concern. “What if this”—I gestured between us—“jeopardizes your career? Your shot at tenure?”
He reached across the table again, capturing my restless hands in his. “Of all the things I might have expected you to say,” he murmured, “that was not one of them.”
“I’d hate to get in the way of something so important.” The words tumbled out. “I can’t stand the thought of being responsible if—”
“Gabrielle.” He squeezed my hand, silencing my anxious spiral.
“If anyone should be worrying about impropriety and consequences, it’s me.
” The intensity in his eyes softened, and I saw something else—a vulnerability I hadn’t expected.
“I just hope you don’t think…” He trailed off, searching for the right words.
“The last thing I want is for you to see me as some sort of…creep.”
I blinked, startled by the confession. “There’s no way I’d ever think that.”
“Because I know how it looks—a lecherous professor chasing after a beautiful, young”—he kissed the back of my hand—“irresistible student.”
Heat rose in my cheeks, mortifying and reassuring all at once.
“Believe me,” I said, ducking my head and catching his gaze through lowered lashes.
“You’re nothing like that. I’ve had my share of sleazy advances.
” A leering football coach in high school, a too-friendly manager with wandering hands…
I shuddered. “You’ve been nothing but a gentleman. ”
Cal relaxed his brow, relief softening his features.
But behind those gray eyes, a shadow lingered—old scars not yet faded.
He squeezed my hand again, as if to reassure us both.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said quietly. “And I hope you don’t think I see you as some devious, self-serving student trying to—”
“Secure an A in your class?” I finished, smiling despite myself.
He nodded, a hint of wry humor tugging at his lips. “I know the type.”
“And I’m not it?” I teased.
“You”—he leaned in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“are definitely not that.” A grin broke free. “Those girls don’t filter into my office until end of term.”