Chapter 7
KATE
Istared at the email on my phone for so long the words began to blur. Then I read it again, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating from too much lab time and too little sleep.
“Holy shit,” I whispered to the empty apartment. “Holy actual shit!”
My research proposal had been approved. Not just approved—fully funded with access to advanced equipment that most post-docs only dreamed about. Dr. Barnes had personally endorsed it, calling my methods “unconventional but potentially groundbreaking.”
I clutched my phone to my chest, heart racing. This was everything I’d worked for, everything I’d moved across the country for. After weeks of analyzing bacterial plasmids until my vision swam, reworking protocols, and doubting myself constantly, it was real. It was happening.
With no one around to witness my complete breakdown of professionalism, I cranked up my “Victory Dance” playlist and stripped down to the oversized Minnesota Blizzard t-shirt I’d “borrowed” from the clean laundry pile and my cotton shorts.
The irony of dancing around in Stone’s team merchandise wasn’t lost on me.
Taylor Swift blasted through the apartment as I jumped on the couch, using a wooden spoon as a microphone.
“Take that, imposter syndrome!” I shouted, spinning in a circle. “Who’s the bacteria queen? I’m the bacteria queen!”
Mid-spin, I froze. Standing in the doorway, gym bag slung over his shoulder, was Austin, watching me with an expression somewhere between amusement and bewilderment.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he said, his voice doing that deep, rumbly thing that made my insides tighten. “The bacteria queen was just hitting her stride.”
Normally, I would have died of embarrassment. Melted into a puddle of mortification right there on the pristine hardwood floors. But the euphoria of my professional victory overrode my usual social anxiety.
“My research proposal got approved!” I announced, still standing on his couch. “Full funding! Lab access! Science is happening, Stone! And Dr. Barnes fully endorsed it.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “That’s amazing, Kate. Seriously.”
I hesitated, my enthusiasm tempered by lingering insecurity. “I honestly didn’t think she even liked me. My first day was a disaster, remember? I overslept, showed up late, and everyone stared at me like I was some incompetent impostor.”
He set down his bag and approached me. “And yet she still supported your proposal. Sounds like maybe you impressed her more than you thought.”
“I guess so,” I admitted, biting my lip. “I’ve been so anxious about fitting in there. They all seem so put-together, so professional. But yesterday—when I was running samples, fine-tuning my plasmid isolation methods—I felt like I finally belonged. And now this...”
“You deserve this,” he said quietly, sincerity clear in his voice. “You love your work. People notice passion, even if they don’t say it outright.”
His words eased some of the lingering tension I’d been carrying and warmth filled my chest. “Thanks. That means a lot. “
He smiled back, looking genuinely pleased for me. Impulsively, I reached for his hand, tugging gently.
“Dance with me?”
He stared at me like I’d suggested we strip naked and run through the streets of Minneapolis in January. The latter might have actually shocked him less.
“I don’t dance,” he said flatly.
“Everyone dances,” I countered. “Some people just need more convincing. Come on, Stone. One dance to celebrate science saving the world.”
“I’m not dancing to Taylor Swift.”
I grinned and hopped off the couch, grabbing my phone to change the music. “Fine. What’s your poison? And don’t say ‘none’ because that’s not a real answer.”
He set down his gym bag, contemplating me with narrowed eyes. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Nope.” I scrolled through my playlists. “Classic rock? Hip hop? Oh wait, I bet you’re a secret country fan.”
“Classic rock,” he admitted grudgingly.
I pumped my fist in victory and put on “Start Me Up” by the Rolling Stones, which seemed appropriately on-the-nose for a guy named Stone.
“See? The universe wants us to dance,” I said, grabbing his hands before he could retreat. His palms were warm and slightly rough against mine, and I felt that now-familiar electric current race up my arms at his touch.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away.
“Most fun things are.” I tugged him toward the center of the living room. “Come on, Stone. Live a little.”
“Austin,” he said, surprising me.
“What?”
“My name is Austin. Stone is just a hockey nickname.”
Something about the correction felt significant, like he was offering a small piece of himself.
“Austin,” I repeated, testing it out. “Dance with me, Austin.”
A flash of heat darkened his eyes at the sound of his name on my lips. He let me pull him closer, his resistance visibly melting.
“I’m not very good at this,” he warned.
“Good thing I’m not either.” I laughed, starting to move to the music.
At first, he just stood there watching me, his body tense with self-consciousness. But as Mick Jagger sang about satisfaction, Austin began to loosen up, his shoulders relaxing, his feet shifting in rhythm.
“There you go!” I encouraged. “Let the music into those stiff hockey muscles!”
He rolled his eyes but moved a little more, and then—miracle of miracles—he spun me under his arm.
“Austin Callahan,” I gasped in mock shock. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“My mother made me take ballroom dancing lessons when I was fourteen,” he admitted. “Said it would help with agility on the ice.”
“Did it?”
“No idea. But it prevented me from looking like a complete idiot at team formal events.”
I laughed, delighted by this new information. “So you’re telling me Minnesota’s star defenseman can waltz? This feels like blackmail material.”
“Tell anyone and I’ll deny it,” he threatened, but his eyes were bright with amusement. “And then I’ll tell everyone about your victory dance.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, taking his hand and forcing him into an elaborate twirl that he executed with surprising grace. “Thank you for being my audience.”
“Wasn’t much of a choice,” he pointed out, pulling me slightly closer as the song changed to something slower. “You were pretty loud.”
“I’m always loud when I’m excited,” I said, then immediately blushed at the unintended innuendo.
Austin’s eyes darkened, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly on my waist. “I remember.”
I swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the thin t-shirt I was wearing and the heat of his palm against my side.
“Right,” I managed. “From our texts.”
“Unless there’s other evidence I’m unaware of,” he said, his voice dropping to that lower register that made my toes curl.
“Not yet,” I replied before I could stop myself.
His breath caught audibly, and for a moment I thought he might close the distance between us. But then the song ended, and he stepped back, clearing his throat.
“I should shower,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. “I’ve got a team meeting later.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” I nodded too enthusiastically, trying to ignore the disappointment coursing through me. “And I should call Angel to celebrate.”
“Your friend from Arizona?” he asked, surprising me that he’d remembered.
“Yeah, she’s actually visiting Minneapolis this week for a conference. We’re meeting for drinks tonight.”
Austin nodded, backing toward the hallway. “Have fun. And congratulations again on your research. You deserve it.”
“Thanks,” I said softly. “For the congratulations. And the dance.”
He gave me a ghost of a smile before disappearing down the hallway. I flopped onto the couch, my heart still racing from our unexpected moment.
My phone buzzed with a text.
Angel
Still on for drinks at 7? Can’t wait to hear about life with Mr. Hockey Hottie!
I grinned, typing back:
You have no idea how much I have to tell you.
“No. Fucking. Way.” Angel’s jaw dropped as she stared at me across our high-top table. “Your mysterious sexting partner and your grumpy hockey roommate are the same person?”
I nodded, taking a large gulp of my cocktail. We were at a trendy bar downtown, the kind of place with exposed brick walls and drinks with names like “Intellectual Property” and “Paradigm Shift.”
“You can’t make this shit up,” I sighed. “Like, what are the actual odds? I did the math—it’s something like one in several million.”
“Forget the math,” Angel waved dismissively. “This is fate, Kate. The universe literally connected your phones before connecting your bodies.”
I choked on my drink. “Angel!”
“What? Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’ve already had virtual sex. Real sex is the logical next step.”
“It wasn’t virtual sex,” I protested weakly. “It was just...suggestive texting.”
Angel raised an eyebrow. “You described in detail what you wanted him to do with his tongue. That’s virtual sex, sweetie.”
My face felt like it was on fire. “Okay, fine. But that was before I knew who he was.”
“And now that you do know? Has it made those thoughts go away?” She studied me over the rim of her glass. “Or made them more vivid?”
I groaned, dropping my head to the table. “More vivid. Definitely more vivid.”
“I knew it!” Angel crowed triumphantly.
“What am I supposed to do?” I lifted my head to look at her pleadingly. “I’m living in his apartment. I need this housing arrangement to work so I can focus on my fellowship. Jumping his bones might complicate things.”
“Or simplify them,” Angel countered. “Sexual tension is exhausting, Kate. Might be more productive to just get it out of your system.”
I took another sip of my drink, letting the alcohol warm my veins.
“It’s not that simple. We’re completely different people.
He’s so...controlled. Everything in his life has a place, a purpose, a system.
You should see his kitchen, Angel. The man has a special container just for protein powder scoops. ”