Page 14 of Love in the Lab (Delaneys in Love #2)

Chapter twelve

Jonathan

“ Y eah?” I ask, barely containing the glee in my voice.

The picnic idea was a gamble. When five o’clock came and went and Molly was still in her cubicle, swiveling in her chair and oblivious that everyone around her had packed up and gone home, I figured she was so absorbed in whatever she was doing that she didn’t realize what time it was and that she hadn’t eaten since lunch.

Hyperfocus , time blind , internal cues going unnoticed .

Buzzwords from the articles I’ve been reading on adults with ADHD bounce around in my head.

They also say that no two ADHD brains are the same, so without talking to Molly directly to better understand her experience of this “fingerprint” condition, I’m really just guessing.

Tonight isn’t the first night I’ve noticed Molly working for long stretches of time without a break, though.

It’s why I started coming to the lab more on weekends, when Molly seemed to be fitting a week’s worth of work into two days.

I knew that if I came in and interrupted her, she would stop and eat something.

Maybe drink some water. On the weekend evenings I stopped by and didn’t find her in the lab (rare), I just checked on a few things in the lab area and went home.

When Molly was there, I stayed longer, even inventing things to do to stick around.

I take Molly’s hand and lead her toward the elevator. She doesn’t pull away.

When we pass my cubicle, she turns her head to peek inside. “You took it all down.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry I had to. I saved all the sticky notes though.

” I wish I could have left them up. I took plenty of pictures when I got to work this morning because seeing my cubicle, desk, computer monitor, and desk chair covered in sticky notes in perfect rainbow order is something I never want to forget.

It must have taken her hours to place each of the three thousand sticky notes individually.

That feels significant. She could have played any prank—something quicker or less thought-out—but she didn’t.

The prank she chose was tedious to execute and loud in its final product.

No one missed seeing my rainbow cubicle this morning.

Knowing how Molly values her time and her invisibility, I can’t help but think maybe she felt I was worth the sacrifice.

I found something interesting while taking the sticky notes down, too. A tiny heart was drawn on the back of one of the yellow ones. I don’t know what that means, but I know what I want it to mean. I want it to mean that Molly is just as captivated with me as I am with her.

I duck into the breakroom to grab the bags of food I stashed there earlier. I had just returned to the lab with food when I heard Molly on the phone.

We go down the elevator, out the front doors, around the side of the building. I gesture for Molly to take a seat on the bench in my grassy alcove spot. We have some time before sunset, though the sunlight is already dimming as dusk approaches.

I sit next to Molly with enough space between us to set the bags of food.

I start pulling containers out of the bags. “It’s from Cafe Beignet. I didn’t know what you’d want, other than beignets, of course, so I got a few different things.”

“Smells amazing.” She inhales, and I hear her stomach rumble again.

Better work quicker. “This is the royal croissant: ham-and-cheddar sandwich on a croissant. The Decatur club: turkey, bacon, and Swiss on French bread. Red beans and rice. Jambalaya. And a muffaletta.”

Molly chuckles. “That’s half the menu.”

I dip my head. “Almost. Help me narrow it down for next time.”

She scoffs. “You’re assuming there’ll be a next time?”

I study her expression. Her words are hard, her tone cool, and her eyes guarded. “Hoping, yes. What’ll you have?”

“The royal croissant, please.”

I hand her the sandwich and uncover the red beans and rice for myself. I watch as Molly lifts the top of the croissant off her sandwich and removes the cheese, setting it on a napkin. She replaces the top and takes a bite.

“You don’t like cheese?” I’m gathering intel, gobbling up whatever tidbits I can glean until she lets me in more fully.

She scrunches her nose. “I don’t really eat dairy.”

“Are you lactose intolerant?”

“No…” She hesitates, blushing. “I just don’t really like the idea of dairy products, the texture of them and how they smell. Same with eggs.” She takes another bite of her sandwich, chews, and swallows. “I know I sound like a picky five-year-old.”

“You don’t.” I shrug. “I read that a lot of people with ADHD have sensory difficulties, too.”

Molly turns her face toward me, eyes wide, before she freezes. Did she forget she told me about her ADHD?

“Oh,” she says.

“You told me on the boat, remember?”

“No, I … I know I told you. But what do you mean you ‘read’ about it?”

I scratch my chin. “I didn’t know a lot about it and wanted to learn more, so I read some articles.”

She blinks. “Why?”

I can feel my ears turning red. I didn’t think it was a big deal. Molly’s acting like learning more about a neurodiversity that affects a coworker is not normal behavior. Okay, coworker is understating what I feel about Molly at this point, but still, why wouldn’t I want to understand her better?

I shrug again. “I don’t know. I thought it would be helpful. For you.”

Molly continues to stare at me like I’m a dolphin with six heads.

I squirm under the scrutiny. With every other woman, I’m smooth, confident.

Some would say charming. Molly disarms me.

Nothing in my usual arsenal works with her.

The harder I try to impress her, the less impressed she seems to be.

“Did I do the wrong thing?” I ask, sure the insecurity I feel is leaching into my voice.

“No,” she whispers, her eyes still on me, but glazed over as if she’s not really seeing me. She blinks and looks away. “I mean, no, that’s fine.”

“Are you sure? Because you seem kind of mad? Or something.”

She shakes her head, tossing her hair from side to side. “I’m not mad. I’m not. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

She forces out a breath. “Just, it was easier when you weren’t so nice to me.”

I’m taken aback. A million questions zing through my mind. What was easier? And why? Also—

“Have I been being mean to you?” The possibility is so distasteful that I set down my food.

Molly screws up her face, her forehead scrunching and her lips forming a grimace. “Uh, no. No, not mean. I didn’t say that right. You’ve never been mean. Just … annoying?”

“Ouch.” Annoying is better than mean, but it’s still not exactly a compliment. Actually, I can work with annoying. It means I get under her skin.

She shakes her head, her cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry. It’s probably on me, to be honest. I don’t always have great tolerance for, you know, people. And, as I told you, I try to avoid distractions so I can focus on my work.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m a distraction?”

Molly’s eyes rake over me from head to toe and back up again.

I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it; she’s not trying to be flirtatious or send a message.

More like she can’t help it. Her raw reaction thrills me—it’s guileless and natural, a brief slip of the mask she usually keeps firmly affixed.

When she finally answers the question, her voice is throaty and low. “Oh, definitely.”

A shiver runs up my spine. Yep, I can absolutely work with this.

Even so, it won’t help to push. I pick my container of red beans and rice back up and steer the conversation around to more neutral topics. “How’s your sandwich?”

“Delicious.” She peers into my bowl. “Your food smells good. What is it?”

I stare at her incredulously, but she appears to be serious. “Red beans and rice? New Orleans staple?”

“Is it spicy? So much of New Orleans food is seafood or spicy.” She shrugs. “I haven’t been very adventurous.”

“Red beans and rice can be spicy, but Cafe Beignet makes it with the tourists’ palates in mind. Flavorful but not spicy. Want to try some?” I push a forkful in the direction of her mouth, raising my eyebrows in question.

She leans her head away, her lips pinched together.

“Come on,” I encourage her. “You can’t live in New Orleans without at least trying red beans and rice.”

She gives a determined nod and takes the fork from my fingers. She slides the bite of food into her mouth and chews carefully.

“Well?” I ask as she swallows.

“I like it. You’re right; it’s not too spicy. It has a good flavor, and I like that it’s dry, not creamy or anything.”

I offer her my bowl. “Do you want the rest?” She smiles, and I suppress the urge to buy a hundred more bowls of red beans and rice to present to her. If that smile is my reward, the effort and cost would be well worthwhile.

“Yes, thank you. But only because you have, like, ten other options in that bag.” Her eyes sparkle as she teases me.

The grin on my face is automatic. I hand her the bowl. “So, what were you working on so intently this afternoon?”

“Oh, um … a data model.”

I perk up. “What kind of data model?”

She examines my face as if she’s determining whether to tell me more. Finally, she says, “I’m looking for a correlation between harmful algal bloom events and tropical activity.”

I pause. “You think hurricanes contribute to red tide outbreaks?”

Molly maintains eye contact. “Maybe. The correlation was statistically significant in the model.”

Huh. That would mean that the storms change the properties of the water enough to either cause or exacerbate conditions for the growth of harmful algal blooms. Of course, the correlation could just be because storms tend to increase pesticide runoff, which in turn causes harmful algal blooms to flourish.

“The correlation might not mean what you think it means, though.”

“I know.” Her eyes narrow in annoyance. “Obviously I need more evidence. I’m working on it.”

I scratch my chin. I didn’t mean to belittle her project, but I can see how she might interpret it that way. I change tactics. “That will be a pretty huge breakthrough when you prove it.”

She brightens. “Thanks,” she says softly.

“I know you’ve got it, but if you need any help, let me know.”

She lifts her chin. “I will.”

The sun has fully set at this point, and the night is getting darker every minute we sit out here. “We should probably call it a night.”

“It’s been a pretty long day.” She yawns.

“You look exhausted.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Thanks so much,” she deadpans.

I chuckle. “Beautiful, as always, but exhausted.”

I stand and reach out my hand to help Molly to her feet. After I collect the leftover food and throw away the trash from our picnic, we walk toward the parking lot together.

As we near her car, Molly riffles through her bag. “Hmm.”

I stop. “What?”

“I can’t find my keys.”

I frown. “Did you leave them in your office?”

She bobbles her head. “Maybe?”

Molly goes back to digging through her bag. I lean forward to glance through the window of her car and groan. “Molly.”

She looks up, and I point to the front seat through the window. Her keys are sitting right on the driver’s seat.

She blushes. “Is it…?”

I pull on the door handle. “Yep. It’s locked.”

The flush on her cheeks deepens. “Okay. No problem. I can just…” She looks around on the ground, though I’m not sure for what.

I’m certain she doesn’t want to wait for a locksmith tonight. That feels like a problem for later. For now, I want to get her home so she can rest. I reach over and place my hand on her arm. “If I give you a ride home, do you have a way to get into your apartment?”

“Yes, but I can walk. It’s not far.”

I know it’s not far, and I know she walks between the lab and her apartment all the time. Still. “It’s already dark out, and I’d feel better driving you.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

I pull my keys from my pocket and unlock my truck.

Molly smiles at me. “Show-off.”

I chuckle. “I’ve locked my keys in my car before, too.”

We climb into the truck, and I start driving toward Molly’s apartment. “How will you unlock your apartment?” I ask her.

She adjusts her seatbelt and leans back to rest her head on the seat. “Oh, I have a hide-a-key in one of those fake rocks that’s hidden in the landscaping by the front door.”

I groan. “Molly. Please tell me you don’t.”

She blinks and looks at me with wide eyes. “Why not?”

I shake my head. “Those things aren’t safe. The rocks never look real, and anybody can just take your key.”

She fiddles with the strap on her bag. “Even if they did, it’s not labeled so they wouldn’t know what apartment it goes to. And they couldn’t get in the building without a code.”

“I still don’t like it,” I grumble. I turn the last corner and pull up to the curb outside Molly’s building. I reach down to unbuckle my seatbelt.

“Don’t get out,” Molly says. “It’ll just take me a second to grab my key.”

I shift in the seat. “Okay, but I’m not leaving until you’re inside. Do you want me to pick you up for work in the morning?”

“No, I was planning to walk tomorrow anyway. But thank you.” She hops down from the truck, shutting the door behind her. I watch out the window as she steps off the sidewalk, squats down, and roots around by the bushes. She straightens, holding up a key for me to see.

I press the button to roll the passenger side window down. “Text me when you get into your apartment,” I call to her.

She flashes a thumbs-up before walking to the entry door and typing in a code. The door buzzes, and she pulls it open, disappearing inside.

I wait until her text comes through.