Chapter 9
NINE
A lora demonstrated with her hands, and oh—bad idea. His attention snapped to her movements with predatory focus, tracking every gesture. Heat radiated from him in waves, his scent—sandalwood and something wild, untamed—wrapping around her like an embrace.
Focus on science , she commanded herself. Science is safe . Science doesn’t have biceps that could probably bench press a car.
“Dancing?” His eyebrow arched, and that really shouldn’t be attractive, but apparently her hormones hadn’t received the memo.
“Yes, dancing. The molecules move in specific patterns like partners in a complicated routine.” She sketched another diagram, very deliberately not thinking about other kinds of complicated routines they could explore. “Which reminds me—my parents want you to come to dinner.”
The words tumbled out before her brain could stop them. Rehan stiffened, his expression flickering between surprise and something that might have been panic.
“Dinner?”
“My mother’s idea,” she rushed to explain. “She’s excited about the research partnership. And probably plotting to interrogate you about shifter biology. She gets very enthusiastic about new scientific frontiers.”
“Ah.” He tugged at his tie, and she definitely didn’t track the movement of his fingers. “When?”
“Tonight? Unless you’d rather get a root canal. Or fight a bear. Both of which might be less uncomfortable than my mother’s questioning.”
A low chuckle escaped him—the first real laugh she’d heard—and oh no, that sound did dangerous things to her insides. Like rearranging her organs into butterfly formations.
“I’ve faced hostile takeovers and pride politics. I think I can handle dinner.”
“You say that now,” she muttered. “Wait until my dad starts asking about your intentions toward his daughter’s research.”
His eyes darkened, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of gold remained. “My intentions are entirely professional.”
The way he said “professional” made it sound like the exact opposite, and her body apparently decided that was fascinating information worth exploring. In detail. Preferably without all these pesky clothes in the way.
Stop it , she ordered her wayward thoughts. He’s your research partner. Your very attractive, supernaturally graceful research partner who moves like sin in a suit.
“Speaking of professional,” she said quickly, “we should run these new samples before the centrifuge decides to redecorate my lab in more colors.”
“Perhaps with proper safety protocols this time?” His lips quirked, and she found herself staring at them. For scientific purposes. Obviously.
“Where’s the fun in that?” She grinned, bouncing toward the equipment. “Science needs excitement. Adventure. The occasional purple explosion.”
“Science needs precision.” He followed close enough that she could feel his warmth along her back. “Structure.”
“Says the man who turns into a giant cat.”
“Tiger,” he corrected, his breath ghosting across her ear. “A very structured, disciplined tiger.”
“Who apparently can’t help playing bodyguard every time something makes a loud noise.” She turned to face him, realizing too late how close that brought them.
His eyes locked onto hers, that predatory focus making her breath catch. “Natural instinct.”
“To protect random scientists?”
“You’re not random.” The words came out rougher, almost a growl, and her knees definitely didn’t go weak at the sound.
Before she could process that statement—and the implications that made her pulse race—the centrifuge beeped urgently. They jumped apart like guilty teenagers, though they hadn’t actually been doing anything wrong. Unless thinking extensively about how someone’s mouth might taste counted as wrong.
“I should...” She gestured vaguely at the machine.
“Yes.” He straightened his tie again, and she firmly told herself not to imagine other ways to dishevel his perfect appearance. “Professional distance is important.”
“Right. Professional.” She turned to the centrifuge, pretending her cheeks weren’t burning. “Though I have to point out—professional distance usually doesn’t involve growling.”
A strangled sound escaped him, something between a laugh and a groan. “I don’t growl.”
“You literally growled at my centrifuge twenty minutes ago.”
“It was threatening you.”
“It was doing science.”
“Recklessly.”
“The best kind of science.” She winked at him over her shoulder because apparently her self-preservation instincts had taken a vacation. “Like the best kind of everything else.”
His eyes flashed gold, his control slipping just enough to send a thrill down her spine. Before he could respond, Maya’s voice rang out from the doorway.
“If you two are done with your ‘professional’ tension, we have actual work to do.” She made air quotes around professional . “Unless you’d rather keep eye-fucking across the lab equipment?”
“Maya!” Alora squeaked.
“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” Maya grinned. “Also, your mom called. She’s making her famous lasagna for dinner tonight. You know, the one that takes hours to prepare? Almost like she’s trying to impress someone?”
Alora groaned. “She’s going to be impossible.”
“Not as impossible as your dad’s going to be.” Maya’s grin turned wicked. “I hear he’s preparing a full presentation on his expectations for anyone interested in his daughter’s... research.”
Rehan’s composure cracked just enough to show alarm. “Perhaps I should?—”