Page 11 of Love in the Lab (Delaneys in Love #2)

Chapter nine

Molly

W hen I come back up on deck, Jonathan has his shirt on and is pulling up the anchor. I settle on the bench seat near the helm of the boat to wait.

It takes only a few minutes for Jonathan to finish prepping the boat. When he’s done, he comes to the helm.

“We’ve got a few more samples to collect on our way in,” he says, eyes directed at my forehead.

I nod and clear my throat. “Okay.”

He fiddles with some switches on the console and presses a red button. I hear a clicking noise.

Jonathan scratches his chin. “Huh.” He presses the red button again, and this time, nothing happens at all.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Okay, don’t freak out—”

I stiffen. “Always a reassuring way to start a sentence—”

“—but the boat won’t start.”

I stand up, peering at the console as if I can offer a second opinion. “Why not?”

Jonathan shrugs. “I’m not sure. I’d guess a dead battery.”

“Like in a car?” I’m not an expert, but my parents made sure my sisters and I know the basics of car maintenance. If my car’s battery dies, I have jumper cables in the trunk, and I know how to hook them up to another battery to start mine.

“Sort of.”

“Can you jump a boat battery like you do a car?” I look around at the wide expanse of water around us—no other boats in sight.

“Yes, but we’d need a working battery, or at least a portable jump-start kit.” Jonathan also looks around us, but all is quiet.

“And we don’t have that.” He shakes his head. “So, what do we do? Is there such a thing as waterside assistance? Like roadside assistance for boats?”

“There is. I’ll call a commercial tow service. If they can’t jump-start the battery, they’ll pull us in.”

He uses the radio on the boat to make the call and then leans against the railing across from me. They said it would take at least thirty minutes to get a boat to our location.

I hold my body still, feeling awkward and tense about our almost-kiss in the water. Jonathan, always assessing, always watching, must notice my body language because he tries to reassure me. “Hey, we’ll be fine. The towboat will be out to us soon enough. We’re perfectly safe out here until then.”

So, he noticed my unease but misunderstood its cause.

I’m not overly concerned about the boat not starting.

It’s still early afternoon, the sky is cloudless, and we have plenty of food and water on board.

I am anxious about the fact that I got so distracted by the fun of being out on the water I lost focus on the work we’re here to do and almost kissed my coworker slash archnemesis.

Very typical of how my brain wants to work and exactly the kind of circumstance I try to avoid by sticking to my regimented schedule and rules.

Jonathan continues. “I don’t know why someone afraid of the water would become a coastal environmental scientist,” he grumbles.

It isn’t a question, more like a wondering into the void.

For once, he’s not even looking at me. It may be that apparent lack of attention that makes me feel safe enough to tell the truth.

“I’m not afraid,” I murmur.

“What?” Jonathan, flustered, steps closer.

I clear my throat to speak louder, stronger. “I love boats. I love the water. I’m not afraid.”

I watch as emotions register and then disappear across his face—surprise, a little bit of annoyance, settling on confusion.

“Then why—,” he starts. He’s standing above me now, looking down with the same glint in his eye that I see in the lab when he’s determined to figure out a puzzling compound. “Why do you avoid fieldwork?”

I sigh. “The lab is a controlled environment. It’s predictable. Out here,” I motion to the expanse of water surrounding us, “anything can happen.”

He drops into the seat next to me. “That’s what’s so incredible about it.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Incredible, but dangerous. Distracting.”

His lips pinch together. “I don’t understand.”

I puff out a breath. “Actually, I suppose it is fear that keeps me in the lab,” I admit. “But not fear of the water. Fear of failing.”

I’m not sure what he sees on my face, but he says nothing, waiting for me to continue. I sit taller, shoring myself up.

“I have ADHD,” I say. Jonathan peers at me, his intense expression unreadable, so I shift my gaze out to the sea before I continue. “When I was in high school, my parents did a lot to help me manage it. But when I started college, I wanted to do it on my own.”

But I didn’t manage it well. I was excited to be away at school; I was meeting new people and experiencing new things.

My attention was divided into a million different directions and my schoolwork suffered.

“I was lucky to get a C average that first semester, even with my accommodations. You have to understand that I’d always been a straight-A student, always told how smart I was.

” It was a huge blow and an even bigger wake up call.

“I knew I had to find a way to stay focused on my top priority: school.”

To make matters worse, when I buckled down the next semester, my new “friends” didn’t understand.

When I stopped participating in their version of fun, they told me I was “too much” and cut me out of their social group.

It was a difficult time for me, and I didn’t really have anyone to talk to about it.

I was too ashamed to tell my parents. My sisters were young—Nicole was in high school, but she was dealing with her own stuff.

“I realized that to have the kind of success I wanted, I needed to cut out distractions. I became all about my classes, and later, my work,” I finish.

I close my eyes and take a breath before turning toward Jonathan again. His eyebrows are furrowed, his lips pinched. His eyes don’t hold the condescension, or even pity, I expect to see, instead they shine with something softer, and it caresses my heart.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he starts, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully.

“I can’t imagine what that was like for you.

” He hesitates for just a moment before rushing on.

“But it’s okay to focus on something besides work sometimes.

It’s okay to have more balance in your life.

I mean,” he chuckles, “you’re brilliant.

Anyone can see that. No one would think less of you if you took weekends for yourself once in a while. ”

I bristle. I know there were compliments in there somewhere, but all I hear are the attacks: obsessive, workaholic. He doesn’t understand.

I defend myself coldly. “You’re one to talk. I see you at the lab more Saturday nights than not.”

He opens his mouth as if to retort but then snaps it shut again. We sit silently, the boat bobbing up and down with the rhythm of the waves.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he finally says. “I just don’t want you to deprive yourself of living a full life, of being authentic to yourself, because of fear. Or deprive others of getting to know you, the real you.”

I study his face. “Why do you care?”

His ears turn red. “I … care …” He trails off, his discomfort assaulting my own nervous system like strong cologne.

I tilt my head. “Why?” I ask again, my voice hardly audible over the sea breeze.

Jonathan leans closer, his mouth opening to say the words I can see, but can’t discern, spinning in his eyes. His gaze shifts to something over my shoulder and when his words finally come out, all they say is, “The towboat is here.”