With a shaky breath, I reach for the box of tissues on the nightstand, clean myself up, then flop back, arm over my eyes.
Tomorrow I’ll make her favorite stupid-complicated coffee order with oat milk and exactly 142 degrees because she’s a psychopath who measures it. I’ll keep my hands to myself. I’ll keep being the safe guy.
But tonight, in the dark, I let myself admit the truth.
I’m completely, hopelessly crushing on my nerdy little assistant. And the worst part is… I don’t just want her. I want her to want me back.
I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do about it.
Chapter Seven
Minerva
“I want to take you to dinner.”
I look up from my tablet at the sound of Tristan’s voice. The sudden crick in my neck tells me that I haven’t moved from this exact spot in… lots of minutes. Too many uncountable minutes. I tend to lose track of time, especially when I’m focused on something.
“What?” I croak.
Kepler, who has been draped across my lap in nap mode, perks up. He chirps and hops to his feet. I hope he’s not ready to go into full zoomies mode. I don’t think I could take the added stress, given that I’m already on alert.
Tristan rests his elbows on the back of the couch. “You’ve been working hard. I really appreciate the time and attention you put into everything.”
Heat crawls up my neck as the memory ambushes me—me, curled half into his lap the other night, legs tucked instinctively around his waist like some kind of koala, talking too fast about molecular bonding and enzymatic pathways because he was listening. Really listening. Not glazing over. Not teasing. Not making me feel strange or excessive or small.
And the joy at that? It just exploded out of me.
I’ve been punishing myself for that slip ever since—tightening the screws on every instinct, every softness. God forbid he think I’m the kind of girl who assumes she’s wanted.
I was so startled by the safety of it that my body forgot its rules, forgot distance, forgot that people don’t usually want you that close when you’re talking about science.
I realized it all at once—where I was, what I was doing—and the humiliation still punches the air from my lungs. I’ve been careful ever since. Quiet. Professional. Determined never to be that personal with him again if I can help it.
Except I live here. His house. His space. And no amount of resolve changes the fact that every room I retreat to still belongs to him.
“It’s my job,” I croak out. “No rewards required.”
But something warm flickers low in my chest anyway. A tiny spark whispering that maybe—not tonight, but someday—I’m allowed to want nice things, too.
“You’re going above and beyond. I want to do something nice for you. Unless… you don’twantto go?” A little wrinkle appears between his brows. I want to smooth it away with my thumb.
The thing is, Idon’twant to go. Dinners mean reservations and fancy dresses and small talk, and trying to hear yourself think over the chatter of other diners, and orderingthe right thinginstead of the thing you actually want.
I don’t want to be rude, though. It’s clear that Tristan wants to make me happy. “How do you feel about food trucks?” I blurt. It feels reckless to choose the thing that lights me up inside without knowing his response in advance.
The wrinkle disappears, and Tristan’s objectively handsome face splits into a charmingly asymmetrical grin. “I love them. But I should warn you, I can’t handle a lot of heat.”
“Not a problem.” I scoop up Kepler in one arm. “I’ll take him back to my room. Do you want to go now? We can call it your cheat day.”
“I could eat. To be fair, that’s almost always true.”
I’ve noticed this, especially when it comes to sweets and salt. “I’ll be right back out.”
I shut the door behind me and lean against it for a second, letting my breath catch. Going out with Tristan shouldn’t feel like this. It’s just food. Nothing serious. But my pulse is jumping like I swallowed a live wire.
Kepler noses at my palm, impatient, so I set him down and open his playpen. “Don’t judge me,” I whisper. “I’m panicking enough for both of us.”
I head to the small dresser, the one I’ve barely touched because I still half-expect someone to tell me I don’t belong here. My fingers hover over the clothes I brought. Finally, I pick a fitted graphic tee and dark jeans, something simple that doesn’t feel like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.
