Page 1 of Love in the Lab (Delaneys in Love #2)

Chapter one

Molly

I hate Jonathan Stanch’s stupidly handsome face, with his smug smile, dark sexy curls, and mischievous hazel eyes. I glare at him from over my computer screen as he walks into the office, disrupting my focus. It’s Sunday evening, for crying out loud. Why is he here? Why is he always here?

When Jonathan passes my cubicle, I bob my head at him icily. “Dr. Stanch,” I say.

His eyes twinkle, and I hate that it always feels like he’s making fun of me, but I never quite get the joke. “Dr. Delaney,” he responds, and he bows. BOWS. The audacity.

This guy is my archnemesis. Okay, I’m being dramatic. I don’t have an archnemesis, but Jonathan gets on my nerves. It’s like his entire existence rubs me the wrong way, though I’m not sure I can articulate exactly why.

He always seems to be around, bothering me and distracting me from my work. It doesn’t even make sense because he’s primarily in charge of fieldwork, so why is he in my lab instead of out by the shore or on a boat where he belongs?

Jonathan and I work on the same coastal environmental science research team at New Orleans State University.

We both came up through the ranks at NOSU together as graduate students and lab assistants, then full-fledged members of the team once we finished our PhDs in coastal and marine science.

Like I said, he always seems to be around, always my competition for grades, positions, and grants.

We traded off being ranked first and second in the class all through grad school.

He won some scholarships I applied for. I won some scholarships he applied for.

Fortunately, in this lab Jonathan focuses on fieldwork and collecting samples out on the water, while I have a more behind-the-scenes lab and office role, so we don’t often have to work together directly.

I check my watch and my eyes widen. I’ve been analyzing the data on my computer screen longer than I thought. When did it get so late? As I’m stretching in my chair, my stomach gurgles, and I realize I worked right through dinner.

I stand and put my hands on my hips, rotating to stretch out my back.

Our lab takes up the entire second floor of an environmental sciences building on the outskirts of NOSU’s downtown New Orleans campus.

Entering in from the elevator or stairs is our office area with cubicles, a few enclosed offices, and a decently sized breakroom with a refrigerator, microwave, and tables and chairs.

Through the office area, the lab area is a separate section with workbenches, equipment, and a couple of large storage closets.

As I head to the refrigerator in the breakroom to get my lunchbox, I hear my phone ping from somewhere inside the pocket of my sweater. I frown, patting my sides and feeling nothing. Maybe it’s in the pocket of my pants? Ah, yep. Here it is.

I have a text from one of my sisters in our group thread. I smile, anticipating news from my favorite people.

Nicole:

Classes start in one week and I’m nowhere near ready

Nicole is a librarian at a small college in Florida.

At twenty-six, she’s a little more than three years younger than me.

She’s usually totally on top of her work, which she’s passionate about, so her text is surprising.

Well, sort of surprising. Nicole also started dating her boyfriend, Adam, earlier this year, and it seems to have done wonders for her work-life balance.

Not something I can particularly relate to, either the dating or the balance part.

My phone pings again.

Olivia:

well stop sucking face and do your job

I laugh out loud. Only Olivia would be so blunt.

She’s our baby sister, seven years younger than me and almost four years younger than Nicole. She graduated from college this past spring and lives with our parents in Austin, Texas, until she figures out her next step.

I start typing a response to my sisters when I’m startled by a voice directly in front of me.

“What’s funny?”

I look up to see Jonathan standing a smidge too close for comfort. I take a step back and scowl at him. “None of your business.”

Jonathan continues standing in front of me, arms crossed and that pompous smile on his face.

I narrow my eyes. “Did you need something?”

His smile widens as he gestures behind me. “Just to get into the breakroom.”

With his words, I realize with surprise that I’m blocking the doorway. I’m a little concerned that I can’t remember if I was already standing here when the group chat started pinging, or if I mindlessly walked over while staring at my phone.

I jump out of the way, and Jonathan makes a beeline for the refrigerator. He opens it, pulling out a bottle of root beer and my lunchbox, which he hands to me. I take it reluctantly, watching him with narrowed eyes.

“Having a late dinner?” he asks. “How long have you been here today?”

My normal routine is to get to the lab at ten on Saturday and Sunday mornings and work until I’m done.

I’m here during the week, too, but so is everyone else, and I have a hard time concentrating.

A whole day passes, and I have no idea how I actually spent those hours.

The lab’s deserted on the weekends, so I use the time to get caught up.

Well, usually deserted, until recently when Jonathan started showing up in the evenings.

He and I actually worked together for several years on a different research team at NOSU, one focusing on coastal erosion, before I heard about the team Dr. Phyllis Gantt was putting together to study harmful algal blooms in the Gulf.

It’s my dream project. The mixture of chemistry, biology, and the ocean blends all my favorite research topics.

Working with Dr. Gantt is a huge honor; she’s one of the world’s leading experts on algal blooms, and has the journal citations to prove it.

She’s the principal investigator, or PI, of the project, which means she oversees the entire research process.

She hired me to her lab in January, and then Jonathan moved over a couple of months later, much to my chagrin.

I didn’t even know he was interested in algal blooms. I can’t seem to shake the guy.

“Dr. Delaney?” he prompts now, and I remember he asked me something. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, um, I don’t know.” None of your business .

He grins like we’re in on a secret together. “All day then, huh? Were you about to eat?”

You know what? No. I’m at a pretty good stopping point for the night. There’s no need to stay and force small talk with my archnemesis.

“Actually, I’m on my way out,” I answer archly.

His eyebrows rise slightly, but he maintains a smile. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you will,” I mutter.

“What was that?”

“Have a good night, Dr. Stanch.”

“You too.”

I wake up groggy the next morning, too early. I had trouble falling asleep and even once I finally did, I didn’t sleep well. My cat, Beaker, decided it was a great night to run around the apartment yowling.

I shower and get dressed in my usual yoga pants and T-shirt combo.

As long as my clothes are comfortable and have lots of pockets, they work for me.

I probably use something like 0.5 percent of my brain power on clothing.

I don’t even mean 0.5 percent of my total potential brain power.

I mean 0.5 percent of my day-to-day brain function.

It’s like in cartoons how the characters will open their closets, and the joke is that it’s just a row of all the same shirts and pants they always wear.

Honestly, that sounds like a dream. When I find a piece of clothing that fits me comfortably, I buy five more, in various colors if they have them.

I head to the kitchen for breakfast. My apartment is a studio, cozy and small. Other than the front door, the only other door in the place is for the bathroom.

On my way to the kitchen, I notice the pile of photographs and empty picture frames on the coffee table in the living room, which I left there last Friday after my Target run.

My apartment walls are too bare. I didn’t think about the walls at all for the three years I’d been living here.

Then I noticed them a couple of weeks ago, and now it’s all I can think about.

My plan is to choose a few photos of my family to hang up.

I check my watch. I have a few extra minutes this morning.

I sit on the couch, avoiding Beaker, who has finally decided to sleep now that I have to be awake, and sort through the photos, trying to narrow them down to the four I want to display.

There’s one of my sisters and me before I left for college.

Olivia was still so little. One of all five of us, parents included, last Christmas.

My sisters and I were wearing matching Christmas pajamas as a surprise for my mom.

Then, one of me with Nicole when she visited New Orleans earlier this year.

I pick through the photos until I’ve made my final decisions. I seal the deal by putting my choices into frames. Now I’m looking at the walls, trying to determine where to hang each frame.

A blaring noise from my phone brings me back to the coffee table. Wait! That can’t be the alarm I set to remind me when I need to leave the house to get to work on time. But it is. How have thirty minutes passed?

I skip breakfast, gather my things, and head out the door. My apartment is only a few blocks from the lab so unless the weather’s bad, I typically walk.

When I get to street level, the humidity slams me in the chest. August in New Orleans is unbearable—hot and sticky, and no matter where I go, it smells like I’m standing inside a dumpster.

Mostly, I like New Orleans, though it’s very different from where I grew up in Texas. I like the food, by which I mean beignets. I like being near the water. I like my lab.

I arrive at the lab, and I’ve hardly had time to set my water bottle on my desk before my boss, Dr. Gantt, approaches.

“Good morning, Dr. Delaney.” She smiles. “Can I speak with you in my office for a few moments, please?”

Um. Okay.

Hands sweating, I follow her across the room to her office, where she ushers me in and shuts the door. I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office, though I’m not sure what I might have done wrong.

She gestures for me to sit in the empty chair in front of her desk while she settles behind it.

Dr. Gantt is young for her position—somewhere in her forties, I’d guess.

Her tight box braids are pulled into a high ponytail on top of her head, and the strands bounce as she rolls her chair closer to the desk.

She folds her hands and places them on her lap. “Dr. Delaney, I want to discuss the work you’ve been doing this year.”

My pulse quickens. “Is there a problem?”

“No. No, not exactly. Before I invited you to join this research team, I talked to Dr. Shepherd.” He’s my former boss. “He told me about some of the creative connections you made in his research, how those connections produced breakthroughs.”

I nod. “Yes, he included me as an author on three different publications because of my contributions.”

“And that’s wonderful. It was your creative problem solving that helped me to know I needed you on this research team. But I just haven’t seen it here, yet.”

My face heats. This lab is bigger and more bustling than my previous one, and I’ve had a hard time concentrating.

I make sure to get my work done, hence my weekend hours, and I know it’s all accurate, but she’s right.

I haven’t had any of those aha moments that seem to pop into my head out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Gantt,” I start, but she interrupts me.

“No, no. This is not an apology moment; this is a growth moment. Molly, we need you on this team. I want to try something to help stir up your creativity. A change in scenery.”

A change in scenery? What does that mean?

“I’m going to have you partner with Dr. Stanch for a while. Get out in the field in the fresh air and sea spray. See if we can’t kick-start that amazing brain of yours.”

My stomach drops, and I fight to keep my expression neutral. Work with Dr. Stanch? In the field? Hard pass. I can barely stand being in the same lab as him for a couple of hours.

I start to protest, but Dr. Gantt holds up her hand to stop me.

“This is not negotiable, Molly. I think you need this. Sometimes we can get in a rut because of a rigid schedule or too much routine. Creativity is possible in those circumstances, but if what you’re doing isn’t working, it stands to reason that you have to try something else.

We’ve got to get you out of your comfort zone and into your growth zone. ”

Out of my comfort zone? The problem for me is that my comfort zone isn’t about being comfortable; it’s about functioning.

It’s about being able to do life with any modicum of control.

I’ve carefully honed my routine for years to make sure I can focus on what matters most to me other than my family: my work. Disrupting the system now is risky.

I wipe my palms on my thighs and take a breath to try to calm my racing pulse.

Resigned, I ask, “When is this happening?”

“I’ll talk to Dr. Stanch today. Don’t worry. I won’t share details. I’ll simply let him know that I’ve asked you to learn the fieldwork side of our research, too. You two can start tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is soon. Dr. Gantt stands, so I follow suit. Before I leave, she walks around her desk and places her hand on my arm.

“Molly, I know you’re not excited about working in the field.

I promise you it’s not any kind of punishment.

I see so much potential for your future in this discipline.

It feels like you’re boxing yourself in when outside of the box is where we’ll find the solutions we need. Get out of the box, Molly.”

I tip my head once in acquiescence, but internally I’m fuming as I leave her office.

Get out of the box? Outside of the box is just chaos and failure. The box keeps me on track.

Without the box, I’m honestly afraid of what will happen.

Just outside Dr. Gantt’s office door is Jonathan.

Maybe when she said she’d talk to him today, she meant right now.

He leans his back against a wall, one foot on the ground, the other leg bent at the knee with his foot propped on the wall.

His arms are crossed in a casual pose. Of course, he’s smiling.

I level a withering stare his way before stomping toward my cubicle.