Chapter 10 #3
I stare at him for a beat, debating whether or not to take offense to that statement, then turn back to the computer with a sigh. Arguing with him is about as pointless as arguing with this damn spreadsheet.
The monitor glows accusingly, and I glare right back at it.
“Come over here,” Elliott murmurs.
“Oh thank god,” I breathe, pushing away from the desk.
I cross the room toward him, immediately grateful for the excuse to move around. Except the nearer I get, the more crowded the lab suddenly feels, his presence even more overwhelming up close.
“You dislike administrative tasks,” he comments, arching a brow as I approach.
“I’m more of a hands-on type of girl,” I reply, winking.
He either misses the double-entendre or bypasses it entirely, gesturing to the trays of blood tubes on the counter. “Then perhaps you’ll enjoy labeling these.”
My enthusiasm dies instantly. “Seriously?”
He hands me a pair of latex gloves. “Yes.”
I resist the urge to argue as he sets me up with a labeling station next to one of the benches, because honestly, anything is better than data entry at this point. My new task is to print tiny stickers, affix them to the blood tubes, and load them into the sample racks. Riveting stuff.
The work itself isn’t difficult, just tedious. Tube, label, rack, repeat. It definitely doesn’t require supervision, but I catch him watching me, his dark eyes tracking my movements before returning to whatever task he’s working on.
I go to lift a tube into the rack, and he suddenly clears his throat.
“That one’s crooked.”
I glance over at him, then at the tube. The label is maybe half a millimeter off-center.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
I huff out an irritated breath, peeling the label off and straightening it before sliding it into the rack. “Happy?”
He dips his chin in a little nod of satisfaction while I resist the urge to smash the entire rack of sample tubes.
Is it a breach of contract if I destroy his lab out of sheer spite?
Probably. Maybe I should’ve actually read the damn thing before blindly signing on the dotted line.
I shove down my annoyance and keep working, pretending I actually give a shit about label placement on the sample tubes. He doesn’t call me out again, but he keeps subtly watching. I can feel it.
The lab isn’t exactly cramped, but it feels smaller now that we’re both working at the same station. We keep circling each other naturally as we sort racks and organize trays, and after the fourth or fifth time, a pattern begins to emerge.
I lean in to grab a rack, he shifts sideways. I move around him to reach a stack of labels, he steps back. I brush past his shoulder while carrying a tray, he creates another foot of distance. Subtle, almost imperceptible– the kind of thing most people wouldn’t notice, but I do.
He’s moving away on purpose.
At first, I don’t point it out– I just watch and test the theory. I lean across the counter to grab something directly beside him, and sure enough, he retreats. I wait another minute, then casually step closer while pretending to examine a rack of samples. He subtly shifts away.
I set down the tray in my hands, huffing out a breath as I pivot toward him. “Jeez, if you’re repulsed by me, just say so.”
He glances up from his notebook, his brow creasing. “I’m not.”
“Then why the hell do you keep backing away from me like I’m contaminated or something?”
His dark eyes flick over me. “I generally avoid touch without intention.”
I gape at him, half offended, half confused. “What does that even mean?”
His gloved hand flexes against the counter, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow. “Contact should be purposeful, not accidental,” he murmurs. “Controlled.”
Something about the way he says it sends a shiver rolling down my spine.
I think about the way he moves, the way he always keeps a measured distance. The way even something as simple as a glass of blood is consumed with ritual and control. And suddenly, I’m imagining what might happen if he did touch me on purpose. Those big hands gripping my hips, pulling me closer…
I shiver again.
He notices.
“You should stop doing that,” he mutters, his gaze dropping back to the notebook in front of him.
“Doing what?” I scoff.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking of,” he says, turning a page in his notebook, “I’d advise against it.”
I snort a laugh, not admitting to anything, but not exactly denying it, either.
“And why’s that?” I ask, lifting my chin.
For a moment, the only sound in the lab is the soft hum of machinery.
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
His eyes remain fixed on the page.
“Because,” he murmurs, “you seem to have a habit of mistaking warnings for challenges.”
I blink at him, suddenly at a loss for words. Which rarely ever happens.
The thing is, he’s not wrong. I’ve spent my entire life testing limits, crossing lines, and pushing against locked doors just to see what was on the other side. I can’t help it. It’s just who I am.
But as my gaze drifts over him, I find myself wondering exactly what it is Elliott Faulkner keeps warning me away from. And why every conversation we have only seems to leave me with more questions than when we started.